


Uncharted Territory

by silverfoxstole



Series: Stormy Waters [2]
Category: Hornblower (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-04
Updated: 2007-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 23:15:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 94,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6170512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverfoxstole/pseuds/silverfoxstole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Stormy Waters. Bush and Hornblower become embroiled in web of vengeance and deceit, with surprise always just around the corner...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

The English Channel, South of Brest, March 1804

 

“Sail ho!”

Hornblower squinted upwards against the sun. “Where away?”

“Two points on the starboard beam, sir!” the lookout shouted, pointing wildly.

Beside Hornblower, Bush already had his glass to his eye. “It’s that French corvette, sir, I’d lay odds on it.”

“I think you may be right, Mr Bush,” Hornblower agreed. The ship had been sighted several times over the past two days, always maintaining her distance, but often enough for all aboard Hotspur to feel that they were discretely but certainly being followed. “What the devil does she want?”

“Shall I get aloft and take a closer look, sir?” Bush asked.

“Very well, Mr Bush.” Bush was gone even before Hornblower had finished speaking, running nimbly up the ratlines with the agility of a man half his age. For a moment, the captain found himself envying his lieutenant’s head for heights. Turning back to the rail, he raised his own glass, training it on the distant ship. She was closer now than she had been, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something very familiar about her.

“She’s that French ship we saw pretending to be a lugger down in Sussex, sir, I’m sure of it,” said Prowse’s gloomy voice to Hornblower’s left. The master seemed to have read his mind.

A moment later Bush hailed from the fighting top. “French corvette, sir, eighteen guns! She’s altered course towards us!”

“Thank you, Mr Bush – come down if you please!” Hornblower called back. “Keep a watch on her, Mr Prowse. I want to know exactly what she does.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Bush leapt down onto the deck. “I recognised her, sir – she’s the Equality,” he said breathlessly.

The Egalité, the ship that had brought the vanguard of an invasion force from France only a few months ago. When Hornblower had last seen her, she had been heading out to sea with, he had assumed, her tail between her legs, the invasion foiled by Hotspur and her crew. The contact she had in England, one Antoine Lambért, was dead. What could she possibly want here? One word sprang into Hornblower’s mind: revenge.

He clenched his fist, the fingers of his other hand tightening on the telescope. “Clear for action, Mr Bush.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Bush had been waiting for the command. His powerful bellow left no member of the crew in any doubt. “Beat to quarters! Clear for action!”

***

They wanted something Hotspur had on board; Hornblower was convinced of it now.

Despite Hotspur’s two-gun advantage, Egalité was tenacious, expertly manoeuvring around to come close enough to launch a boarding party. Bush’s guns were thundering out, but the Frenchman barely seemed to notice. Hornblower drew his sword, turning to face the blue and white onslaught from the larb’d rail. “Hotspurs, we’re boarded!” he yelled. “To me!”

***

Bush heard the shouts and musket fire from above during a brief lull on the gun deck.

He looked up to see a French lieutenant coming down the companionway towards him. Bush had his pistol in his hand and pulled the trigger almost without realising, a reflex reaction from over twenty years’ service. The man fell with a short cry – he lay on the steps, twitching, but Bush barely noticed, pushing the body aside and running towards the quarterdeck. “Styles, Matthews – with me!” he shouted over his shoulder.

Another flash of blue came at him from the corner of his eye – he drew his sword, bringing the blade up to parry the French soldier’s lunge just in time. There was a clash of metal; the Frenchman’s sabre scraping up Bush’s blade to the hilt. They locked guards for a moment before Bush thrust the man away from him with all his strength. The swords met again – Bush may have lacked finesse, but he knew a lot about determination. The Frenchman pulled back for a second and Bush took his opportunity, stabbing in with his blade. The soldier crumpled without a sound. Bush wrenched his sword from the body and moved on through the melee that was now Hotspur’s quarterdeck. Somewhere up ahead he could see Hornblower, tussling with the French captain, but he was too far away to reach. As Bush watched, horrified, the Frenchman slashed down with his sword, laying open Hornblower’s arm. He pushed Hornblower aside and leapt for the companionway, towards Bush.

Bush’s instinctive first thought was for his captain. Hornblower was down, but he still seemed to be moving. Matthews was making his way through the smoke and bodies towards him.

“Sir, look out!” It was Styles’s voice – Bush barely had time to register the fact before he was slammed aside with great force, right into the deck. He hit the planking hard, the impact knocking the breath from him. The next second, huge hands were helping him up, setting him back on his feet.

“It’s the Frog captain, sir – he’s gone below,” Styles said urgently.

“Then get after him, Styles,” Bush gasped, winded.

“Aye, aye, sir.” Styles handed him back his sword, which he’d dropped when he fell.

The Hotspurs seemed to be holding their own. Bush gave a last desperate glance in Hornblower’s direction, but couldn’t see him through the mass of men on the deck. “Come on, Styles,” he said, and headed back to the gun deck.

***

Hornblower had seen the French captain go.

Clutching his arm and hissing in pain, he became aware of the blurred form of Matthews looming over him. “We should get you to the surgeon, sir,” the bos’n said, concern plain in his voice.

Hornblower shook his head. In a sudden moment of clarity, he had realised what the Frenchman wanted. “My cabin, Matthews,” he said weakly. “The captain…”

Matthews looked confused. “Sir?”

“In my…cabin…Matthews. He wants…the code book, Lambert’s code book.” Hornblower tried desperately not to cry out as fresh agony surged through his arm. “Tell…tell Mr Bush…”

***

Bush ducked through the chaos on the gun deck, Styles behind him. A French soldier suddenly appeared in their path, but was felled by Styles and a handy belaying pin almost before Bush had registered his presence. The captain was ahead of them – his coat tails vanished into Hornblower’s cabin.

There was another of the enemy – Bush thrust, parried and stabbed automatically, pulling the blade free with an effort as it caught in the man’s body. He leapt over the corpse as it fell, running now in his desperation to reach the French captain before he could find Hornblower’s papers. Hotspur was not going to be taken, today or any other, if Bush had anything to do with it.

He cannoned into the door, his momentum knocking it open with such force that he stumbled and nearly fell headlong on the deck. Righting himself just in time he saw the Frenchman at Hornblower’s desk, turning out the drawers as though looking for something in particular. Startled by the noise of the door slamming open, the man stared at Bush, his eyes widening as he took in the huge, bloodstained vision behind him that was Styles.

Bush raised his remaining pistol, pointing it at the captain. “I think that’s far enough,” he said quietly, finger tightening on the trigger. “Do you surrender, or do I shoot?”

***

“It’s a clean wound, sir – we’ll have you stitched up in no time,” Doctor Stewart told Hornblower cheerfully, examining the gash in his arm. “The Lord has yet spared you.”

The battle had almost blown itself out. The disappearance of their captain and the sheer weight of numbers in favour of Hotspur’s crew seemed to have sapped any enthusiasm the remaining Frenchmen may have had for the fight. One or two determined stragglers were being rounded up – Hornblower squinted through the drifting smoke but could see no sign of Bush.

“Doctor – have you seen Mr Bush?” he asked the surgeon, who was busying himself with needle and thread.

Stewart shook his head. “I view it as a good sign that he has not been brought to me.”

Hornblower did not share that view, but he bit his lip, trying, and failing, not to recall the bloody deck of the Renown, the state Bush had been in when Styles found him. And Archie…

His heart nearly leapt through his chest when he heard the pistol shot.

***

The captain was babbling away in French, spreading his hands before him in dumb show. He had not moved from his position behind Hornblower’s desk. Bush knew that the important papers were securely locked away, but the Frenchman seemed to be looking for more than sealed orders. The Egalité had deliberately sought Hotspur out. Bush swore inwardly – that bastard Lambert was still plaguing him, even from beyond the grave.

He was still aiming his pistol at the captain. The sounds of battle from above had become steadily fainter, the guns falling silent. “You must surrender,” he said, “Your men have lost.”

The Frenchman said something else, completely incomprehensible to Bush. It was ironic that a man who could not speak French and had no interest in ever learning should have found himself promised to a woman with the blood of French nobility in her veins. Anna could have told him immediately what the man was saying; discovered his intentions. Bush was left floundering, as usual.

That moment’s thought of Anna was enough to distract him. The captain’s hand went for his gun – Bush heard the shot, heard Styles shout, felt the impact as the bullet tore into his shoulder, but for one incredible second could feel no pain. His own finger squeezed the trigger of his pistol, the gun kicked in his hand and then he was falling, the deck above tilting and cartwheeling overhead.

He must have passed out briefly. The next thing he knew, someone was lifting his head. He could feel hot blood soaking into his shirt and coat. The initial shock had faded, the searing agony spreading into his shoulder and down his left arm - he tried to move, and nearly cried out as fire enveloped him.

“Sir! Mr Bush, say something!” That was Styles, he realised dimly, blinking up at the hazy face above him.

He tried to speak, but all that emerged was a gasp. Swallowing, he tried again. “Styles…”

“Yes, sir?” He hadn’t heard the big man sound so anxious since that morning on Renown.

“Did I…did I…get him…?”

Styles’s scarred face creased in a momentary bemused grin. “Aye, sir, you got ‘im all right – straight through the ‘eart. Bloody good shot, too.”

Bush laughed weakly. “I seem…to do my best shooting…when I’m losing blood at a…rate of knots…” He coughed – his vision was fading, Styles becoming fainter, darkness encroaching from all sides.

“Sir?” Styles’s voice boomed like a church bell in Bush’s head. “Sir, are you - ”

Everything went black, and Bush knew nothing more.

***

“How is he, Doctor Stewart?” Hornblower asked.

The surgeon had swiftly patched him up, his arm stitched and caught up in a sling. Bush’s injury was much worse. The lieutenant had taken a pistol ball in the shoulder, and lost a considerable amount of blood in the short time it took Stewart to reach him. Now he lay in one of the cots in the sickbay, still and pale and heavily bandaged.

“He’ll recover,” Stewart said, scratching his close-cropped head. “Mr Bush’s constitution never fails to amaze me. One would scarcely imagine so slight a man to have such stamina. The ball fortunately passed right through, and has done no damage to any vital area. I believe him to lead a charmed life, sir, much like yourself.”

“No one can escape forever, Doctor,” Hornblower told him, Archie’s image hovering before his eyes once more.

Stewart clapped his wig back in place. “Well, Mr Bush will live to fight another day.” He began to tidy away his instruments. “I am somewhat relieved that we managed to get some laudanum into him – I find him a somewhat…irascible patient at the best of times, and I have no doubt that he will refuse any further pain relief.”

Hornblower could not help but agree. It had taken both Matthews and Styles to hold Bush still long enough for Stewart to force the opiate down him – once he had come round, despite his obvious pain, Bush kept insisting feebly that he was all right, turning his head away whenever Stewart tried to administer the drug. Hornblower could understand - after Renown, both he and Bush had developed a distrust of laudanum, remembering how Clive had doled it out as though it were sugar water.

He sat down on the chair beside Bush’s cot. The lieutenant shifted and moaned softly in his sleep. He looked peculiarly vulnerable – Hornblower was used to Bush being there beside him, solid and dependable, brave as a lion. It was unnerving - seeing him like this brought back uncomfortable memories, of the dark, hellish cockpit of the Renown, when Horatio had thought he might in one fell swoop lose both his friends, new and old, to the Spanish; and then the prison in Kingston, the trial, Archie confessing… Archie dying…

He shook his head sharply, trying to banish the recollections. Bush would get better. Whatever the French captain had been searching for, it was still safe, and Hotspur now had Egalité as a prize. There would be money for himself and for Bush, money that both sorely needed. But the fact that it had been a planned attack, that Egalité had sought them out, worried Hornblower. Hotspur had something on board that Bonaparte wanted back, and this time it was nothing so obvious as his brother.

Was it Lambert’s codebook? The man had been almost insanely concerned with finding it. Hornblower had barely given the journal he had picked up in the tower at Amsworth a second thought – it remained in the pocket of the civilian coat he wore at the time. At first he had assumed it to be the French lookout’s record of ship movements, but could it possibly be more than that?

Whatever it was, he doubted if the French would give up easily.

And then they would all be standing into danger.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

_Some three weeks later, en route to London_

William Bush had always hated being cooped up.

It was bad enough that the constant shaking and jolting of the carriage over the holes in the road kept jarring his injured shoulder, but it also meant he repeatedly knocked knees with the gangly Hornblower or was flung sideways into Styles. Even the brig of the Renown had been bigger than this mobile box – Bush was sure he must now know how the cattle in the hold felt, crammed in against one another. The fact that it was too windy to open a window didn’t help, making the chaise stuffy and unbearable. He had a sudden wild urge to rap on the roof, demand that the driver stopped, just so he could get out and breathe some air that hadn’t been repeatedly inhaled and expelled by three other people.

Sighing, he leant his head back against the squabs. Post chaise had never been his favourite method of travel – he had only been able to afford to use it once or twice, the last when he had had to hurry down to Plymouth to join the Renown, and disliked it intensely. It may be fast, but it was damned uncomfortable.

Bush closed his eyes, mentally running over the events that had brought him to this, to what felt to him like a breakneck dash to London. After the taking of Egalité, Hornblower had immediately set sail for Portsmouth. He came to see Bush, who was still in the sickbay, a familiar-looking leather-bound volume in his hand.

“Do you recognise this, Mr Bush?” Hornblower asked, once he was sure that Doctor Stewart was out of earshot.

Bush peered at the book, trying to lift his head enough to get a better view of it. “It’s that Frog notebook, isn’t it, sir?”

Hornblower nodded. “With everything that happened, I quite forgot about it – it was left in the pocket of my coat when I changed my uniform.” He glanced round the room, watching Stewart, then bent over the cot, angling his head closer to Bush’s. When he next spoke, it was in a lowered voice. “I think that the Egalité’s captain was looking for it.”

There was nothing remarkable about the book. Bush found himself frowning, looking more closely as if under his gaze it might change into something else altogether. “But it’s just a list of ship movements, isn’t it?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve looked all through it, but it will take French better than mine to translate. Lambert was searching for a codebook – do you remember?”

“Yes.” Lambert had been almost insane at that point, his sole intent to salvage something from the wreck and take down Bush, whom he blamed for ruining his carefully laid plans. Bush had been more concerned about the safety of Anna, wounded and being held as a hostage, but he recalled Lambert’s frenzied demands for the codebook – the Frenchman had been convinced that Bush knew where it was. “Do you think that’s it, then, sir?”

“I don’t know. But I do know that if we remain on station the Frogs will keep trying until they get whatever it is they think we have on board back.” Hornblower straightened. “We’ll return to Portsmouth and put this in the hands of Admiral Pellew.”

It was infernal luck that bad weather in the Channel delayed Hotspur’s return to port. It was nearly thirteen days later that she sailed into Portsmouth harbour, in need of repairs and accompanied by Egalité. By this point Bush was chafing at the enforced inactivity thrust upon him by Doctor Stewart – the surgeon had refused to allow him to leave the sickbay until satisfied that Bush’s wound was healing as it should. After nearly a fornight of being able to do little beyond staring upwards at the deck, Bush was infinitely grateful at the prospect of accompanying Hornblower to the Admiralty, even if, after his first venture ashore, his legs did threaten to give way at any moment.

After heartily congratulating them on the taking of Egalité, Pellew had grown serious when shown the French journal. There was silence in the room for some minutes as the admiral examined the book. Eventually he looked up, all trace of levity gone from his expression. “Where did you get this?”

Hornblower explained about the tower and the French observers.

“And you only now bring it to me? Three months later?”

“It…I regret that it slipped my mind, sir. So much was happening…it did not seem to be of paramount importance at the time,” Hornblower said uncomfortably.

“You were wrong, Mr Hornblower,” Pellew said sharply. “It would seem that Boney knows you have it – from the reports I’ve received in the last few days, half the French navy has been trailing your ship looking for this.”

Bush frowned. “It’s that important, sir?”

“Yes, Mr Bush, it most certainly is.” Pellew looked down at the book again. “It will need to be translated – most seems to be in some kind of code. It may take months to decipher.”

“I take it that you are convinced that the Egalité boarded us in search of that book, sir,” said Hornblower.

“Unless you have another Bonaparte hidden on board, I believe it is safe to assume so. You were lucky only the Egalité was in the vicinity – next time it could be a frigate.” Pellew pushed back his chair and paced to the window, clasping his hands behind his back. After some moments’ thought, he turned back to face his officers. “The Hotspur will remain in port until further notice, ostensibly for repairs. If the French are looking specifically for her, I’ll not risk having her on station.”

Hornblower and Bush exchanged glances. What were they to do while Hotspur was confined to Portsmouth? “Sir, I - ” Hornblower began, but Pellew cut him off.

“The two of you will travel up to London and deliver this book to the Admiralty. It is most fortunate that you sustained that wound, Mr Bush – your recuperation will be an excellent excuse for your being in town.”

Bush flicked an eyebrow at Hornblower. “Thank you, sir,” he said, struggling to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

“And I have no doubt that you will be pleased to see your intended once more,” Pellew added. “The Maitlands are settled into society – being the family of the exiled Marquis de Saint Clair has opened doors for them. They are my eyes and ears amongst the French community in London. I want you to find out all you can about Lambért and his connections.”

They had been dismissed barely a few minutes later, with instructions to report discretely to the Admiralty at Whitehall, where they would receive further orders. Orrock was to be left in charge of the Hotspur, and Bush and Hornblower would post to London with all speed. It was agreed that they should travel incognito, in civilian clothes, taking Matthews and Styles with them – the two would pose as servants, providing assistance to their officers should it prove necessary.

The chaise jolted again, and Bush winced, managing to hold in the curse that was on the tip of his tongue as fresh pain shot through his shoulder. It had barely begun to heal, Stewart having only removed the stitches a few days earlier. One more scar to add to his rapidly growing collection, he thought in resignation.

“Are you all right, Mr Bush?” Hornblower asked, watching him in concern. He had no doubt that he still looked a wreck – this interminable journey was tiring him more than he would ever admit.

Bush gritted his teeth and braced himself as the carriage hit another pothole in the road. “I’m fine, sir.”

From his expression, it was clear that Hornblower didn’t believe a word. He opened his mouth to say something more, but was interrupted by Matthews. Both he and Styles had been quiet during the journey, unused to being in such close proximity to their captain and first lieutenant, and, certainly in Styles’s case, never having travelled in such luxury before.

“It’s coming over mortal dark, sir,” the bos’n remarked, changing the subject much to Bush’s relief. Matthews had a perception regarding both his senior officers, which verged on the uncanny. “We’ll be in for a storm before long.”

“’Ow much longer before we reach London, sir?” Styles asked, taking this as his cue to ask the question that was on all of their minds.

“Another hour, perhaps? I’m really not sure,” Hornblower said. He smiled apologetically. “I am afraid I’m no more used to journeys like this than you.”

Bush groaned inwardly. Another hour in this overheated airless box! He wasn’t sure he would be able to stand it.

Hornblower peered at him. “Are you sure you’re all right, Mr Bush?”

“Yes, thank you, sir.” If there was one thing Bush hated when he was ill, it was fussing. Constant questions as to his welfare made him irritable. He closed his eyes once more, focussing his thoughts on Anna. Even if this was the most ridiculous scheme in the world, at least he would be seeing her again, and sooner than he had expected. He smiled as his mind’s eye brought her image before him – there were her sea-blue eyes, her laughing mouth, that hair of burnished gold she habitually wore under a lace cap as though she were an old maid. Perhaps those men who regarded themselves as connoisseurs of women would view her mouth as being too wide, her nose too turned up at the tip for true beauty, but Bush was not among their ranks. Those men would know nothing of, and would not appreciate, her courage and determination, her fierce loyalty and devotion. Bush had witnessed all these first hand, and they only endeared her to him all the more.

“Here comes the rain, sir,” said Matthews suddenly, peering out of the window. “More’n a little, too.” It was barely a second before the pelting of fat raindrops could be heard on the roof.

Bush swore, abruptly back in the real world again. “That’s going to delay us.”

“Nonsense, Mr Bush,” said Hornblower complacently. “What harm is a little rain?”

“Forgive me, sir, but we are not aboard ship now – mud creates all manner of hazards on the road.”

“We have our orders – a few drops of rain will not stand in our way.” Hornblower glanced through the glass on his side of the carriage. “I fancy I see lighter sky in the distance – this is nothing more than a shower. We will make London in good time.”

Eyeing the black, lowering clouds on the port side, and with more experience of the vagaries of travel than his captain, Bush very much doubted that, but ever the good subordinate, he kept his views to himself.

***

They rattled on, the monotony barely relieved by conversation. Neither Matthews nor Styles knew quite what to say now it became clear that they could speak freely, and Bush was never inclined towards small talk. He decided to make the best of a bad situation and try to sleep, curling into his corner as best he could. The rocking of the carriage, not unlike the familiar sway of his cot in Hotspur, lulled him swiftly into a state of peacefulness, not fully asleep, but far enough from waking to be content.

Bush remained in this comfortable cocoon for some time, the fire in his shoulder dulled by partial unconsciousness, vaguely aware of noises and movements around him but too deep to be bothered by them. He would have been perfectly happy to stay in this state for the remainder on the journey, but at length he became aware of something struggling for his attention. His sleep-fuddled mind tried to make sense of what was happening as the sounds became louder…quite suddenly, like a swimmer breaking the surface of the water, he realised that they were shouts of alarm. Hornblower was yelling something Bush couldn’t make out. He opened his eyes, but could see nothing – was he blind? No, the interior of the carriage was pitch black, the lamps extinguished.

“Sir?” he said, trying to sit up. “Sir, what - ”

There was a hand on his arm. “Trouble, Mr Bush,” Hornblower’s voice whispered from nearby. This was reinforced a moment later by the unmistakable sound of a pistol shot. The rocking of the chaise stopped abruptly – it became belatedly clear to Bush that they had come to a halt. Through the rain beyond the window, a shadowy figure on horseback could just be made out. Now Bush could hear voices outside – the coachman and the postillion, he guessed. What the devil was happening?

This figure approached the chaise, and rapped on the window. Even without light, Bush knew that Hornblower was looking at him. His good hand went to his sword – he could feel Styles moving beside him, no doubt feeling for the knife in his belt. Bush nodded, though Hornblower could not see him. Slowly, the captain let down the window.

In a moment of clarity, Bush knew what was about to take place. Sure enough, the long barrel of a pistol rested on the window frame.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” said a gruff voice, “Stand and deliver.”

TBC


	3. Chapter Two

“Out of the coach, gentlemen, if you please.”

The horseman backed a way a little, allowing Hornblower to open the door, but kept his pistol in view. For a moment, Bush had thought that it would be easy to overpower one ruffian – his view immediately changed as he dropped to the ground, ignoring Hornblower’s offer of assistance, and saw the four other riders that surrounded the chaise. It was difficult to see through the darkness and the rain that still lashed down, but all wore mufflers over their faces, their hats pulled low.

“I cannot see what you can possibly want,” Hornblower was saying, “We are carrying little enough.”

“Allow us to be the judge of that,” the first man said. He gestured to his companions, two of whom dismounted, approaching the carriage. As they watched, the men began rifling through Bush and Hornblower’s baggage.

“Belay that!” Bush barked without thinking. “Belay, do you hear? We have nothing of value!” He started forwards, only to find himself suddenly sprawling on the ground. Pain shot through his shoulder as he landed heavily on it – he swore furiously, trying to right himself.

“There was no need for that!” shouted Hornblower. He bent down beside Bush, helping him up. “Are you all right, William?”

“As long as you cooperate with us, no one will be harmed,” the first horseman said, waving his pistol vaguely in their direction. The other two men, the ones not engaged in searching the coach, were standing a few feet away – Bush realised that one of them must have shoved him. There were two dull clicks, and he and Hornblower were staring down the wide barrels of two muskets. “I believe you are sensible men.”

Bush swore again. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded.

The horseman bowed theatrically from the saddle. “Mere gentlemen of the road, seeking to redistribute a little wealth.”

“Then you have chanced upon very lean pickings here!”

There was a restraining hand on Bush’s arm. “I think that discretion may be the better part of valour, William,” Hornblower said softly in his ear.

“Just let me at ‘em, sir,” whispered Styles from somewhere to Bush’s right.

“No, Styles. We would stand little chance in a fight.”

“I’d be willing to try, sir,” said Bush, glaring at the horseman. He could not make out the man’s face, hidden as it was by the scarf wound round his chin and the shadows from the brim of a battered tricorne, but he could have sworn that he was being watched in amusement. I’ll teach you to look upon me as a joke…

“I appreciate the offer, Mr Bush, but I would not wish to see you further wounded. How is your arm?”

“All right, sir.” Bush could feel the warmth of fresh blood trickling down his sleeve. “I think it’s bleeding again.”

“We need to get you out of the rain.” Hornblower raised his voice, addressing the mounted figure. “My friend is seriously wounded – let us return to the coach.”

“All in good time,” came the reply.

“He is already weak - to remain in this wind in such a downpour may kill him!”

“That is no concern of mine.”

Styles growled, rising to his feet – it took both Hornblower and Matthews to hold him back. “Don’t be an idiot, Styles!” Hornblower hissed. “They’ll shoot you down before you get ten paces!”

“We’re not dealing with ordinary ruffians ‘ere, are we, sir?” Matthews asked softly.

“No, Matthews, I don’t think we are.”

The four of them crouched in the rain, huddled together for warmth as much as defence, for some time. All were soaked to the skin. Bush could feel the cold permeating his bones, and realised he had begun to shiver. He glanced at Hornblower – his captain’s face was white in the tiny sliver of moonlight that had made its way through the clouds, his hair plastered to his forehead. Hornblower caught the glance and smiled slightly, squeezing Bush’s arm in reassurance.

At length, their attackers regrouped. Styles and Hornblower got to their feet to face them.

“Your watches, gentlemen, and your purses,” the leader said, “Lean pickings indeed, but worth a few shillings.”

Reluctantly, Hornblower handed over his timepiece and the few coins in his purse. Matthews and Styles had barely a few shillings between them, and nothing else of value. Bush was loath to give up his own watch – it had been a present from his father on his twenty-first birthday, to mark his coming of age, and was engraved with his initials and the date. It was one of the few expensive things he owned.

“William,” Hornblower said gently. Bush put the watch into his hand, and looked away as Hornblower gave it to the thieves. Despite his weakness, his blood was boiling in fury. The indignity of being ambushed like this, unable to fight! Just to let these men get away with it went against every instinct in his body.

And then the men were gone, as swiftly as they had arrived, hooves thundering away. Hornblower got Bush on his feet. “Styles, fetch my cloak, quickly now,” he ordered, “Matthews – where is the coachman?”

The men jumped to it. “’Ere you go, sir,” Styles said, reappearing with the heavy cloak.

“Thank you, Styles. You’ll put this on, Mr Bush, and no arguments,” Hornblower added sternly as Bush began to protest, wrapping the cloak around him. It was thick wool, and Bush subsided, grateful for its warmth. He felt chilled to the marrow.

“Coachman’s dead, sir, bad head wound,” Matthews reported. “The lad’s scarpered.”

“They must want to strand us here. It seems I will have to take the reins.”

Styles and Matthews exchanged a glance. Their captain was not known for his skill with horses.

“I can drive,” Bush said. Matthews was ostensibly posing as a groom – familiar with horses from an early age, Bush himself had volunteered, but Hornblower brushed the suggestion aside, claiming that no one would take him for a servant. “I’ll do it, sir.”

“No, Mr Bush, you are in no condition to do anything of the kind.” Hornblower’s expression became one of necessary determination. “I’m sure it can’t be that difficult.”

“Begging yer pardon, sir, but I can do it,” said Matthews unexpectedly.

Hornblower blinked in astonishment. “You, Matthews? You are familiar with the skill?”

“Oh, aye, sir. I were groom to a cab firm when I were a nipper. I’ll manage it, sir.”

Bush looked at the bos’n and shook his head. Every time he thought he had the measure of these men, they surprised him once again. “Matthews, you are a marvel.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll get on the box, then, shall I, sir?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Hornblower stared at Matthews in amazement. “How on earth did you end up in the navy, Matthews?”

“Oh, petty pilfering, sir,” Matthews said with a grin. “T’were either that or a longer voyage to Botany Bay.”

“They weren’t just looking for valuables, sir, were they?” Bush said as Hornblower joined him in the shelter of the coach. It was a relief to be out of the wind. Styles was on the box with Matthews, the coachman’s blunderbuss, found discarded in a hedge, in his lap.

“No, William, they weren’t,” Hornblower replied grimly.

Realisation hit Bush like an icy wave. “The book.”

“Indeed. We were fortunate that I took the precaution of hiding it well – Maria sewed it into the lining of my coat.”

“A clever thought, sir.”

“Perhaps. We must be on the alert, Mr Bush – we may not be so lucky next time.”

***

It was some time later that the bright stripes of light from windows and streetlamps began to fall over the carriage. The rocking had almost lulled Hornblower to sleep – he awoke abruptly as the coach jolted over an uneven patch in the road. Glancing into the opposite corner, he expected to find Bush still asleep – his lieutenant looked exhausted, and it was clear that his shoulder was paining him. Bush was huddled in Hornblower’s boat cloak, and despite the heavy fabric he was shivering. He had been out in the rain for far too long. To Hornblower’s surprise, he was very much awake, and watching the houses pass by the window, a frown embedded between his eyebrows.

“Is something wrong, William?” Hornblower asked.

“Genteel poverty.”

“I’m sorry?”

“She told me that her grandfather lived in genteel poverty.” Bush looked at the imposing residences around them, and a faint sneer curled his lip. “My home would fit five times over into one of these places.”

Hornblower peered through the glass himself. “Well, perhaps if one is a marquis, this is indeed poverty.”

Bush gave a sharp sigh and sank back against the squabs. In the shadows, Hornblower could not make out his expression. The carriage rattled on, Matthews seeming to know where he was going. Bush did not speak again, and Hornblower thought that he must have fallen asleep once more. The tone of Bush’s voice bothered him, however – it had been bitter, almost scathing. He knew that Bush was painfully aware of his humble background – he was never ashamed of being the son of a ship’s carpenter and was fiercely proud of his family, his heritage, but could not help but hate the way that society would always judge him by where he came from rather than who he was. Bush was always terribly uncomfortable around any show of wealth, found mixing with those of a higher social station to himself a trying experience. Hornblower had tried to drum the attitude from him, so far without success – take Bush into a ball or a drawing room and he would not know what to do, firmly believing that he didn’t belong there.

At long last, the carriage pulled up outside a tall, impressive building of white stucco. Just one light burned in a window on the first floor, its reflection shimmering on the rain-slicked pavement. At least the rain had stopped for the moment. Hornblower opened the door, ignoring the step, and jumped down – above him, Styles was descending from the box.

“Matty – er, Mr Matthews says that if someone’ll direct ‘im to the stables ‘e’ll rub the ‘orses down, sir,” the big man said.

“Very good, Styles.”

“’Ow’s Mr Bush, sir?”

“Mr Bush is fine, thank you, Styles,” said Bush, appearing at the door. His voice had recovered some of its strength, though in the light from the house he was pale, water still dripping from his sodden hair and running down his face. “Make yourself useful and see to the baggage.”

Styles knuckled his forehead. “Aye, aye, sir.”

“Styles,” said Hornblower, a thought suddenly occurring to him, “Better just say ‘yes, sir’ for the moment. And you had better drop the sir, William. We must preserve our cover.”

“As you wish – Horatio.” He turned to see that Bush had alighted unaided, and was shaking out his cloak, somewhat swamped by its voluminous folds.

“Is everything all right, Mr Bush?”

“Yes, thank you,” Bush replied stubbornly.

Hornblower rang the bell, leaving his lieutenant to gaze up at the house. It was obvious that Bush had not expected Anna to rise quite so far. As they waited for the door to be answered, Styles hovered on the pavement with the bags, unsure whether to approach the front door or not.

“Damnation, where is everyone?” Hornblower exclaimed as a second tug of the bell failed to raise anyone within.

“Probably retired for the night,” said Bush, trying, and failing, to stifle a yawn.

“It cannot surely be that late. Early hours are not kept in town, William.”

“Aye, and half the day is lost in sleep, no doubt.”

At length, the sound of a heavy bolt being drawn back could plainly be heard. The door swung open to reveal a tall figure holding a candelabrum. The candlelight flickered over the golden hair piled fashionably on the young woman’s head, glinted from the crystal drops at her ears and throat. Her blue eyes widened as she saw the bedraggled group on the doorstep.

“Oh, thank goodness!” she exclaimed. Hornblower might not have immediately recognised the poised, elegant figure before him, but he knew the voice. The light, musical tones could only belong to Anna Maitland. “We had all but given you up tonight – I feared that some disaster had befallen you!”

“It very nearly did,” Hornblower said as she opened the door wider and ushered them into the hall. The room was stuffy, and smelt of melted wax, but it was a welcome relief from the chill outside. “Matthews is waiting with the horses, ma’am – if someone could direct him to the stables…?”

“Of course.” Anna tugged the bell rope beside the fireplace. “I’m sure John is still up. I will show you all upstairs at once – you are soaked to the skin.”

“Please, we can manage quite well, but Mr Bush should be in bed. He has - ”

Bush waved the concern away. “I’m all right,” he insisted. “For God’s sake, stop fussing, Horatio.”

Anna looked at him properly for the first time. “Good God, Will, whatever have you been doing to yourself?” she demanded, taking in the dripping, unsteady figure before her.

Valiantly trying not to lean on the mantelshelf, Bush raised an eyebrow. “And a good evening to you, too, ma’am,” he said dryly.

Anna clucked her tongue, and hurried over to his side. She pushed the sodden hair back from his forehead. “I can’t leave you alone for long, can I?” she sighed. “Three months apart and look at the state of you.” Her fingers brushed his temple, lingering down the side of his face – he pulled back slightly, taking her hand in his and raising it briefly to his lips before letting it fall. Interpreting this as perhaps a reluctance to show affection before his captain, Anna turned instead to Hornblower. “If you will follow me, Mr Hornblower, I will show you to your rooms.” She gathered her long skirts in one hand, and, holding the candelabrum high with the other, swept across the hall.

Hornblower, remembering Anna as he had last seen her, could barely equate this graceful, assured woman with the girl he had met in Sussex. Then she had been a determined firebrand, wrapped in a blanket with her shining hair loose down her back, anger in her eyes as she argued with him; and later, a white-faced rag doll in a bloodstained dimity dress. Tonight she looked every inch the lady as she led them up the stairs. He glanced at Bush and caught a flash of…was that trepidation, hesitancy on his lieutenant’s face? Anna was the granddaughter of a marquis, had been used to such luxury as this before the revolution in France had forced her family to flee their home. Some would say that she had been restored to her proper station in life.

But Bush had met her on an equal footing, when she had had little more than he, used to cleaning floors and mending her own dresses. Hornblower could imagine what was going through Bush’s mind:

Anna had risen from her humble existence, but in doing so, had she left William behind?

TBC


	4. Chapter Three

“There. That’s better.”

The fire leapt into life under Anna’s encouragement. She set down the poker and turned to regard the soaked, mud-splattered figure at her side. Even in the warmth of the bedroom, and despite the heavy cloak, Bush was shivering, though vainly trying not to show it.

“Come along,” she said briskly, “You should be in bed. You’ll catch your death of cold.”

“Anna, you shouldn’t be here with me, not like this,” he insisted as she began to help him out of the cloak. It was too big for him, swathing him completely from neck to foot. “Leave me with Styles, he can help me well enough.”

“Aye, miss, I’ll do it,” Styles said, leaving his muddled unpacking of Bush’s bag. Though he was trying hard, the big sailor’s pretence of being a gentleman’s gentleman would have fooled no one.

“No, you will attend to Mr Hornblower. I will look after Mr Bush,” Anna told him firmly.

“If you say so, miss.” Styles looked at Bush hesitantly, but William sighed.

“Go on, Styles. You are supposed to be the captain’s steward, after all.”

“Aye, aye – I mean, yes, sir.”

“Do you think to compromise me, Mr Bush?” Anna asked when Styles had gone.

“I fear it will do little for your reputation.”

“You had better get out of those wet clothes.” She let the cloak fall to the floor. Beneath it he was wearing an old brown coat, plain, but exceptionally well-cut considering it must have come from a provincial tailor. One sleeve hung empty at his side – she started in alarm, but swiftly recovered herself when she realised that the arm beneath was caught up what had at some point been a sling. “What’s this?” she asked, easing the coat from his shoulders.

“French bullet, two weeks ago. It’s nothing.” It was hardly nothing – Anna’s eagle eye had not missed the fresh blood that spotted the white lawn of his shirt.

“Hmm.” She let it go, for the moment. Pushing him into an armchair, she carefully unwound the queue ribbon from his hair, untangling the wet curls. Reaching for a towel, she began to squeeze away the water. He relaxed a little under her touch, some of the tension leaving his face.

“I thought I should never be warm again,” he said after a while. He leaned his head back, looking up at her. “You know you shouldn’t be here.”

“Back there again, are we? If you imagine I care for such trivial things as my reputation, William Bush, you have poor grasp of my character.”

“What would your father say?”

“Does it matter? This is hardly the first time we have been alone together,” she pointed out.

“Yes, but not since - ”

“Not since what?”

He shook his head. “Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

Anna thought that it evidently did, but she held her tongue. “Let me look at your shoulder.”

“Anna - ”

“Don’t pretend that it doesn’t hurt.” She was already deftly unbuttoning his waistcoat. The removal of that garment and his shirt caused him some considerable pain – she caught him biting hard on his lower lip as she pulled the shirt over his head. “You can curse if needs be, you know. I don’t mind.”

“Believe me, the particular word that came to mind would most certainly not be fit for your ears,” he said with a hint of that lop-sided smile she remembered.

“You and I are now a matched set with our scars,” Anna said lightly, unwinding the bandage. “I should have known that a promise would not be enough for you, but there was no need to prove yourself to me by getting shot in the same shoulder.” She peeled back the bloodstained dressing – the flesh beneath was a mess. It was clear that it had begun to heal, but had been torn open once more by some exertion. “I think that a doctor will need to look at this in the morning.”

“Just bind it up and leave it. I’ll heal.”

“The voice of experience, ‘Doctor’ Bush?”

“No, just a natural distrust of physicians.”

Anna went to the washstand and poured some clean water into a bowl. Leaving him briefly, she located some lint in the linen cupboard – there were fresh bandages amongst his belongings, no doubt sent by the redoubtable Doctor Stewart. When she returned, William was sitting on the edge of the armchair, looking rather uncomfortable. It took a moment for Anna to realise that he was embarrassed to be half-dressed before her.

She smiled mischievously. “There’s no need to blush – I can assure you that I saw far more the first day I clapped eyes on you. My reputation has long since fled.”

After a slight pause, he laughed, and she was relieved. “Have you intended to defy convention all your life?”

“No, circumstances led me to it. I find that, on the whole, I care very little for convention.”

They were silent as she gently cleaned the wound. In the firelight she could see the glint of old scars as they criss-crossed his lean chest. One in particular, a long gash across his rib cage, drew her attention – she had seen it before, when he had been laid out, half-drowned, on the kitchen floor at Whitethorn. “Where did you get this?” she asked quietly.

“The West Indies. One of the Dons tried to cleave me in two.”

“You must lead a charmed life.”

There was a sudden flash of anger in his eyes. “I was just lucky,” he growled, startling her. “Others were not so fortunate. If I could have I would have given my life willingly to - ” He took a deep breath, closing his eyes, visibly forcing himself to calm down. “It was luck,” he said evenly, “that’s all.”

Anna said nothing, seeing that this was a painful subject. Instead she concentrated on re-bandaging his shoulder. “I think you’ll do,” she said eventually. “How does it feel?”

Bush flexed his arm experimentally, wincing. “Better, thank you.” He looked at her for a long moment, as though seeing her properly for the first time. “You’ve got blood on your dress.”

“I give not a fig for the dress.”

“It’s a nice dress. Very grand.” Did she catch something in his voice then, a trace of…bitterness?

“It’s the latest fashion, or so I’m told. Hardly practical, but my grandmother insists that we dress for dinner,” Anna said, trying to make light of it. “She is rather set in her ways, and finds me somewhat of a hoyden. Everything must be just so.”

There was a wry twist to his mouth. “I fear then that she will find me sadly lacking.”

Anna slipped her fingers beneath his chin, tilting his face up towards hers. “How could she possibly do so?”

“I have no polish, no fashion. I’m a plain man, Anna, you know that.”

“A country bumpkin?” She laughed. “Oh, Will! How can you think so of yourself?”

“I am no great gentleman,” he insisted.

“And I no great lady. I told you that once before, remember?”

He looked at her, and those sad eyes seemed more melancholy than ever. Anna bent down, desperate to take that sadness away, to have her happy William, the one she had seen off on the Hotspur three months ago, back again. She kissed him, hoping to chase away the demons that seemed to be plaguing him. After a brief hesitation, he responded, his good arm sliding about her waist and pulling her close. For a few precious moments there was nothing but the two of them as she melted willingly into his embrace.

“That dress is ruined,” he remarked softly as they finally parted.

“Hang the dress,” said Anna bluntly.

“I suppose you have a dozen more.”

“Oh, two dozen at least,” she said airily, wishing that he would let the subject drop. She straightened, gathering the bowl and the lint. “I should leave you to get some sleep.”

“I don’t believe that will be a difficult task,” he replied, smothering a yawn.

“I will return Styles to you.” Anna kissed him once more, on the cheek, and made her way to the door. As she reached it, she paused, her back to him. “William, you do know what it means to me to have you here, don’t you? I have missed you.”

“And I you.” The answer came almost automatically.

She waited for more, but it did not come. Sighing inwardly, she turned the handle. “Goodnight, Will. Sleep well.”

Closing the door behind her, she barely caught his reply – it was so quiet she might easily have missed it. “Goodnight, love. And thank you.”

Anna gathered her skirts, padding off down the landing, wondering why her heart, which had felt so light at the thought of seeing him again, was now weighing so unbearably heavy.

TBC


	5. Chapter Four

“William?”

Hornblower knocked lightly on the door. When there was no answer, he opened it a crack and looked in – the room was dim, but he could make out a shape under the bedclothes, the dark hair on the pillow. Bush was still fast asleep, snoring faintly at the base of his throat. Horatio shut the door quietly, deciding to let his lieutenant have his rest – he needed Bush back to full strength as soon as possible, and yesterday’s soaking would not have done him any good.

Thinking of the previous day brought some concerns to mind, concerns that had been nagging at him for most of the night. Hornblower mused on these as he made his way down the stairs: there had been something very suspicious about the attack on the road. He could not believe for a moment that they had been attacked by ordinary brigands – a seasoned thief would have been able to tell immediately that they were a poor gamble. There was evidently far more to the French journal than was immediately apparent. Though he was curious to know exactly what the book was, Hornblower knew that he would not rest easy until it had been safely handed over to the Admiralty. Until then they were all still potentially in danger.

But there was one point that bothered him more than any other. The leader of the horsemen, despite hiding his face, had seemed vaguely familiar. Not in his voice or address, or even his manner, nothing Hornblower could put a finger on, but it was there. He was sure that he had met the man before. And that worried him, deeply.

***

Bush awoke to bright sunshine spilling across his face.

He cracked open an eye and wondered where the hell he was. A great swathe of fabric hung above him, rather like the inside of a tent – it took a moment for him to realise that it was the canopy of the bed. He’d left the curtains open, having – despite the natural claustrophobia of a ship – a dislike of being confined. As the sleep cleared from his brain, he took a moment to observe the room in which he found himself. It was a far cry form his tiny, Spartan cabin in Hotspur, more than twice the size of his room at home – this chamber was positively opulent in comparison, gaudy gilded furniture and heavy drapes, and far too many candles in gilt sconces. The lighting bill alone must be double his yearly pay at least.

Rolling over in the bed, he tried to guess what time it was. Late, certainly, from the position of the sun. The mattress on which he lay was so soft he had almost sunk without trace when he gratefully fell into bed last night. Such luxury would surely ruin a man. Bush was a firm believer that hardship and suffering were a sailor’s lot, and that it could make a man if he so chose. A life such as this encouraged sloth and idleness, and that could be good for no one. Too much comfort, too easy a life was positively dangerous.

The pain in his shoulder, as though sensing these thoughts, had awoken by now, making its presence felt with a dull, burning ache. He was damned if he would see a doctor, though Anna would no doubt insist.

Anna.

Bush groaned and buried his face in the pillow, recalling the confusion he had seen in her eyes the night before. It had never been his intention to hurt her. Fatigue and frustration had got the better of him. The shock and surprise of seeing her open the door, every inch the lady…he had been naïve to assume that such a change in circumstances would change nothing between them. He had known that the moment he saw the neighbourhood in which the Maitlands now lived. Her words came back to him, “I am no great lady.” He sighed, thinking of the way she had looked last night. Yes, my dear, you are, and that’s the problem.

There was a knock at the door, thankfully rescuing him from these troubling thoughts. Bush raised his head a little and called out, “Who’s there?”

“Styles, sir. Got hot water for yer – are you ready to get up now?”

“Yes, come in.”

The door opened, and the familiar huge figure of Styles appeared, trying to balance the water jug and turn the handle at the same time. Normality at last - Bush had to stop himself from smiling at the sight.

“Mr ‘Ornblower sent me up, sir. ‘E said as ‘ow you’re not to get up unless you feel ready,” Styles said, looking around for the washstand. Locating it, he began to pour the water noisily into the basin.

Bush sat up, wincing as he put too much weight on his injured arm. It still hurt like hell, but thanks to Anna’s ministrations he could move it now. “I’m fine, Styles. What time is it?”

Styles, unfamiliar with timekeeping without the regular sound of the ship’s bell, looked blank. “Don’t rightly know, sir. About six bells, I think.”

“Forenoon watch?”

“Aye, sir.”

Eleven o’clock already! They’d let him sleep away half the morning. “Damn it, Styles, you should have woken me earlier,” Bush snapped, pushing back the bedclothes. “God knows what they think of me downstairs.”

“Mr ‘Ornblower told me t’ let you sleep, sir. And it don’t matter, sir – the old lady don’t come down till the afternoon, so they told me in the kitchen, and Mrs Maitland always ‘as a cup of chocolate in ‘er room,” Styles said. “Mr ‘Ornblower said ‘e’d speak to you when he gets back from the Admiralty.”

Bush, halfway to the washstand, stopped. “He’s gone without me?”

“’E’s taken Matthews, sir. Said there was no need fer us all t’ go and draw attention to ourselves.”

It was a valid point, but the logic of it did nothing to salve Bush’s wounded pride at being left behind. The thought of Hornblower heading off to complete their mission while he lay dreaming in the midst of all this decadence…dear God! Did they think him capable of nothing? Was he such a frail thing that he had to be kept abed after a few hours in the rain? He was used to worse than that every day on board ship, had been for more than twenty years. If he took cold after such a triviality there was no hope for him.

He stalked over to the basin and washed and shaved in silence, fuming at his own apparent uselessness. Styles, used to his lieutenant’s moods by now, busied himself laying out Bush’s clothes – Styles might not have liked Doughty, but it seemed he had picked up a few things from the admiral’s steward.

“Miss Maitland took yer other shirt to be cleaned, sir,” Styles said as he helped Bush ease his shoulder into his sleeve.

Bush met the big man’s eyes in the mirror, fixing him with a steely glare. “I hope you haven’t mentioned her being here to anyone else.”

“Oh, no, sir, I wouldn’t do that!”

“Because if you have, I’ll personally take out your tongue, do you understand me?”

“Aye, sir. Me lips are sealed, sir.” Bush was sure he caught the faintest hint of a smile on Styles’s battered face, hastily smothered.

“They’d better be.”

“Would you like some breakfast, sir?” Styles asked with all the innocence he could muster. “Bacon and eggs.”

At the mention of food, Bush suddenly realised how hungry he was. He arched an eyebrow. “If you swear to me that you haven’t touched it, Styles, then yes.”

***

“I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t let you go inside.”

Hornblower waved the paper he held in exasperation. “I have an appointment with Captain Foster!” he hissed, trying not to make too obvious a scene. The marine on duty at the Admiralty gates was being deliberately obstructive.

“So you say, sir, but as I’ve told you already, Captain Foster ain’t ‘ere. You’ll ‘ave to come back tomorrow,” the man said calmly.

“This ‘ere is Captain ‘Ornblower,” said Matthews, “’E wouldn’t lie to yer.”

“So you say, mate, but I’ve only got your word, ‘ain’t I? ‘As ‘e got anything to prove ‘e’s ‘oo ‘e says ‘e is?”

“No, I haven’t,” said Hornblower. The letter he had been given for Foster was deliberately vague, in case it was intercepted. Evidently Pellew had not anticipated this kind of trouble.

The marine sniffed. “As I said, you’ll ‘ave to come back tomorrow. More than my job’s worth to let you in today.”

Giving the man up as a lost cause, Hornblower turned away from the gates. “Something smells wrong, Matthews,” he remarked as they set off down the road.

“Aye, sir. Captain Foster wouldn’t refuse to see us, would ‘e, sir?”

“I doubt it. Nothing connected with this mission rings true. Do you recall the masked horseman last night?”

“I don’t think I could I forget ‘im, sir,” the bos’n said.

“Did anything about him seem…familiar to you?” Hornblower asked carefully.

Matthews looked thoughtful. “Now you come to mention it, sir, aye, it did.”

“What kind of thing? His voice, his manner?”

“Well…” The old sailor scratched his grizzled head. “I don’t rightly know, sir. I just felt as though I knew ‘im from somewhere. You knew ‘im too, didn’t you, sir?”

Hornblower nodded grimly. “Yes, Matthews, I did. And I want to know who he was.”

***

Bush was alone in the dining room when Anna found him.

She hesitated in the doorway, watching him for a moment – he sat there gazing at the portraits on the walls, a cooling cup of coffee at his elbow. He still looked pale, but it was no longer the deathly whiteness of the previous night, natural rather than the result of cold and fatigue. The long queue down his back would always mark him out as a sailor, and in the daylight she could see that the brown coat had seen better days, but to look at him no one would believe him to have come from such humble stock. Anna remembered her father’s comment when she had revealed William’s background: “Well, my dear, either there has been an accident of birth or someone has been lying to him, as that is not the face of a common tradesman!” He was right – Anna could think of at least two artists who would give their eyeteeth to paint those refined, noble features before her now.

She glanced at the dark, forbidding pictures of disapproving people in powdered wigs that gazed down at her. “They were a desperate group, my ancestors,” she said, stepping into the room, “Rogues and swindlers to a man. And the women were even worse.”

There was a telltale twitch at the corner of Bush’s mouth, but he kept a creditable straight face. “Whores and gamblers all, I presume.”

“Mr Bush, I’m surprised at you, speaking of such things to a lady,” said Anna, shutting the door carefully behind her.

“Forgive me, I had no idea I was in the presence of one.” His tone was light, but she didn’t miss that edge to it, the one that had been there last night.

“Really? And how do you come to be so sure, sir?”

“She continually tells me so, though the evidence of my own eyes says otherwise,” he said quietly, looking away.

Anna crossed the room to his side. “A lady would not speak so boldly to a gentleman, even though she were promised to him. And a lady would most certainly not appear before him in a dress that has been mended on at least three occasions. Or so my mother tells me. I personally believe that if a man wishes to have me he will do so in both a ball gown and a darned frock. Though,” she added, hoping to raise a smile, “he would look equally ridiculous in either.”

There was a pause, as though he was fighting with himself, and the twitch became a definite quiver. The quiver spread into a twist, and then into a smile. He turned to look at her, and as their eyes met the smile exploded into a full-blown laugh. Anna laughed to, as much in relief as in amusement.

“Are they really your ancestors?” he asked at length, nodding at the portraits.

“Good God, no. They came with the house. They are a desperate lot, though, don’t you think? I wouldn’t be surprised if some of them got the noose.” Anna perched on the dining table, looking up at the paintings. She pointed to one particularly dark and swarthy individual, glaring down at them from the shadows of his tarnished gilt frame. “I’m sure he did, at least – a highwayman if ever I saw one.”

“And how many have you seen?” Bush enquired in amusement.

“Not as many as you, it would seem.” She paused, and then added, “Is that what happened last night? You were delayed by brigands?”

“Petty thieves, nothing more.” A dark look swept over his face for a moment.

“Did they take much?”

“A few coins – thankfully I wasn’t carrying more. And my watch. That hurt the most.”

“Oh, Will.” Anna put a comforting hand on his arm. “Never mind. We’ll get you a new one.”

He smiled sadly. “I fear it will be no replacement. It was a present from my father,” he added in answer to her questioning look.

She nodded, understanding completely. “The money…if you have been left in difficulties I’m sure that Pa would - ”

“No!” he cried quickly, looking startled. Anna jumped at the sharpness of his tone. Catching a hold of himself he lowered his voice. “No, I have money, love. A fair sum, too.”

“Aha,” said Anna, jumping down from the table. “And how did you come by this fortune? Piracy?” She smiled, but he seemed to find no amusement in her teasing.

“We captured a French ship. It was…” His voice trailed off, and he looked away, towards the window.

“William?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I think it quite obviously does,” she countered. She crouched down beside his chair, bringing her face level with his. “Is it such a secret that you cannot tell me?”

Bush sighed – she could almost see the battle going on behind his eyes, his struggle whether to tell her or not. Eventually he seemed to come to a decision. His expression was grave as he said, “It was the Egal - ” he stumbled over the French word “ – the Equality.”

Anna felt her blood run cold. “Lambert’s ship?” Dear God – the ship that had brought her mother across the Channel, the ship that had concealed French soldiers in her hold, that had almost launched Bonaparte’s invasion of England. “Was that how you were wounded?”

He nodded. “We took her, Anna – she’s no longer a threat.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just the thought of that man…” Anger rose in her throat – she tried to choke it down. She felt tears of rage spike in her eyes – it was only when she felt William take her in his arms that she realised he had mistaken them for tears of sorrow. He held her, rocking her a little, and she leant her head on his shoulder, grateful that whatever it was that had been troubling him last night seemed to have gone.

“It’s all right,” he said softly, stroking her hair, “No one will hurt you. I won’t let them.”

“‘Them’?” She raised her head, looking him in the eyes. “ What did you mean by that?”

“It’s nothing,” he said, a little too quickly, “A slip of the tongue, that’s all. Isn’t it natural that I should want to protect you?”

Realisation was dawning – dread settled in her stomach, heavy as iron. “He’s dead, but it’s not over, is it? The reason you’re here – it’s nothing to do with Admiralty business, or your shoulder. It’s because of him. Pa wouldn’t tell me, but I can guess.”

“Anna, we shouldn’t be speaking of this - ”

“You know you can trust me, Will. I was there, remember? I know what he was planning, I knew him half my life! Please don’t keep this from me. If Lambert is threatening us from beyond the grave, I want to know about it!”

“Anna, I can’t,” he said helplessly, “You know I can’t. I have my orders – I daren’t disobey them.”

“Duty,” she said flatly, her hand dropping from his sleeve.

“Yes.”

“I thought I meant more to you than that.” She straightened, brushing down her skirt. Memories were surfacing, of their time at Whitethorn, how he had struggled between his duty to the Navy and his feelings for her. How she had had to fight Hornblower for his loyalty. “Of course, being such a perfect officer your duty is to your captain.” The words were out of her mouth before she could check them, bitter and hard. “I clearly matter little in the great scheme of things.”

Bush looked as though she had just slapped him. He was out of his chair, starting towards her, his hands held out. “Anna, please don’t do this - ”

“Mr Bush is right, Miss Maitland,” said a new voice, startling her. Anna whirled around to see Hornblower standing in the doorway – he had entered without either of them noticing. His face was grave, the dark eyes serious. “He has his duty.”

“So I can see,” Anna said stiffly. She glanced between them – William’s eyes were wide, beseeching her to understand, Hornblower just watching her carefully. “Duty, but the question is: to whom?” She turned and hurried from the room, unable to look at either of them any longer. Behind her she heard William call her name, but his voice was abruptly cut off as the heavy door banged shut.

She leaned against the wood, alarmed to find that she was shaking. Fighting to control herself, she found that she only succeeded in making the tremors worse. The man was dead, had been dead for months, and still the thought of him could have this effect on her. And now this… she couldn’t believe that William – and her father! - would keep such a thing from her.

Would it never be over?

TBC


	6. Chapter Five

“Anna!”

Bush rounded the table in a flash, but it was too late – the door had shut behind her, the latch slipping into place. He swore, slamming the heel of his good hand into the thick oak panel. “Damn!” He would have reached for the handle, followed her, but Hornblower’s voice had the ability to stop him.

“Leave her, William.”

“Horatio, you don’t understand – I have to speak to her, to explain - ”

“I think that you have explained quite enough. Or were you intending to completely compromise our mission?”

Bush blinked at him, uncomprehending. “Anna can hardly be a danger - ”

“The Admiral’s orders were to speak of it to no one but Maitland,” said Hornblower sharply, “What would you have revealed had I not walked in at that moment?”

“I would never have revealed confidential information,” Bush replied, stiffening.

“That’s as may be, but I will not have you put us all in jeopardy because of your heart. Your duty to the King and the service must come first.”

Bush looked at him, and Hornblower had the feeling that his lieutenant was about to make a comment, but bit it back just in time. “Surely the main part of the mission is now complete, sir?” he asked. His expression had closed up, slipping into that uncomfortably familiar wooden mask.

“No, Mr Bush, it is not,” Hornblower said. He began to pace the length of the dining room as though it were a quarterdeck, clasping his hands tightly behind his back. He still could not make sense of what had happened at the Admiralty.

“Did you not hand over the documents, then?” Bush asked, watching him carefully.

“No. Captain Foster was not there.”

“Not there? Had he received no communication from Portsmouth?”

“That is something we will not know if we can never get past the gate.” Hornblower reached the head of the table and turned, pacing the other way. “I find it hard to believe that Foster, eccentric as he is, would simply have gone out when we were expected.”

“Unless he didn’t receive word that we were coming. I can’t think that the Admiral would be so remiss as to forget, sir.”

“He would not. And that’s what concerns me.”

Bush frowned. “You think that the letter was intercepted?”

“It is a distinct possibility.” There was a sudden knock at the door, startling them both. They exchanged a glance. Hornblower recovered first. “Come!”

The door opened and the footman appeared, bearing a salver. “A letter has just arrived for you, sir.”

“Thank you. Oh, wait a moment, there may be a reply,” Hornblower added as the man began to withdraw.

“There is no reply, sir – the messenger would not wait,” the footman said, and vanished before he could be questioned further.

Puzzled, Hornblower unfolded the slip of paper. The note inside was short, and unsigned. He read it twice, but remained just as perplexed. “Well,” he said, showing the letter to Bush, “What are we to make of that?”

“‘The expert that has been requested has failed to arrive. Retain the papers and await further orders.’” Bush read aloud, his frown deepening. “Is this genuine?”

“It was sealed with a plain wafer. The writing could belong to anyone.”

“I don’t like it, sir.”

“Neither do I, William, but we can do little until tomorrow.”

“What will you do with the book?”

“Keep it under lock and key. There must be a safe in the house,” Hornblower said, beginning another circuit of the room.

“They’ve tried to take it twice now, sir, and they’ll try again,” Bush pointed out.

“I know. I wish I knew what that book contained.”

There was a pause. Hornblower knew what was coming. “Well, we are staying in house full of French speakers, sir,” Bush said.

“I hardly think the Admiral would thank us for revealing all to them, Mr Bush. You have said quite enough already,” Hornblower snapped. Usually he felt guilty about reprimanding Bush, but on this occasion the man deserved it – he was allowing his heart to rule his head, unthinkable in the Navy and positively dangerous in this situation.

Bush flushed. “My apologies, sir,” he said stiffly. “It will not happen again.”

“It had better not. There is far more to all this than meets the eye, and I will not have anyone put unnecessarily in danger. I hope I have made myself clear?”

“Abundantly, sir.”

“Then we’ll say no more about it.”

***

“Anna? Sweetheart, is something wrong?”

Anna glanced up to see her father coming down the hall towards her. Behind, she could hear Bush and Hornblower’s voices but the thick wood of the door muffled the words to the extent that she could make out little of what was being said.

“I saw Hornblower return,” Richard Maitland remarked. “Has he interrupted a tête-à-tête with Mr Bush?”

“Mr Hornblower has a talent for such things. Pa, may I speak to you?” Anna asked.

He looked surprised, but nodded. “Of course, my dear.”

Anna caught sight of Robert, the footman, approaching the dining room. “Not here,” she said, drawing her father into the next room and shutting the door firmly behind them.

This chamber was never used. Once a breakfast room but now shrouded in dustsheets, it was deemed more economical by Anna’s grandmother to limit the family meals to the dining room. No one ever came in here – they could speak without fear of being interrupted.

“Is something wrong, Anna?” her father asked, peering at her in concern. “You were so delighted to see Mr Bush this morning - ”

“Pa, tell me the truth, please,” Anna said, cutting him off. She looked up, meeting his eyes. “Is William here because of Lambert?”

Maitland met her gaze with a steady one of his own, and said cautiously, “Has he told you so?”

She shook her head impatiently. “He will not say, but I can draw my own conclusions. His manner gives him away. He pleads his orders, his duty – does he not have a duty to me?”

“You are not yet his wife, Anna. He is in the King’s service, he cannot disobey his orders.” Her father sighed. “You must try to understand.”

“I understand.” Anna could feel disappointment flooding through her. “I see that ‘duty’ has you in its clutches too.”

“Anna, please don’t be ridiculous. This matter has wider implications, it is delicate - ”

“Too delicate for the women to be told, yes? While the men have their secrets and missions, the women wait and worry.” Anna turned her back, hugging herself tightly. “I would have thought that you of all people would be able to trust me.”

Maitland shook his head. “It is not a matter of trust, it is a matter of national security. Bush’s hands are tied, as are mine. If he could, he would tell you, I’m sure.”

“I am glad that one of us feels able to be so.”

She could almost hear him frowning. “What do you mean? Has something happened between you?”

“I don’t know, Pa.” She took a deep breath and turned to face him. “I really don’t. He has been different since he arrived, distant. I have no idea why.”

“Oh, Anna.” Her father held out his arms to her and she gratefully allowed him to enfold her in a comforting embrace. She rested her head on his shoulder as she had done when a child. “Give him some time. Why, when we were in Portsmouth anyone could see how much he cares about you.”

Anna did not miss the unintentional use of the past tense. Her mind’s eye conjured an image of Hornblower; always demanding William’s loyalty – despite his kindness to her in Portsmouth, is was quite clear that he viewed her as a threat, a distraction, both to his friendship and his authority. She had gathered from her conversations with Maria Hornblower that Horatio was fiercely committed and devoted to the Navy, even, though Maria would not say so, at the expense of his own family. It was no small wonder that he pushed William to do the same. She sighed, wondering whether she would constantly have to fight this battle against ‘Duty’.

“I wish I could believe that, Pa, I really do.”

***

“Well?”

Maitland looked up from the journal. “It is most definitely in code.”

Hornblower had reluctantly agreed to show their host the book – Bush had, rightly, pointed out that since they were asking him to take care of a potentially dangerous object Maitland had a right to know what it was. There was also, naturally, a chance that, as an associate of Lambert’s for some time, Maitland might have some clue as to the book’s secrets. “Do you have any knowledge of the key to this code?” Hornblower asked now.

“I have never seen the book before,” Maitland replied. “On the surface it would appear to be a record of ship movements, but there is far more here than that.”

“Lambert did not take you into his confidence?”

The big man laughed harshly. “Mr Hornblower, that man deceived me for nearly ten years! He played me like a fiddle – do you honestly think he would have given me the slightest inkling of what he was planning?”

“Lambert was cunning, and intelligent. I hardly think he would have placed all his eggs in one basket,” said Bush.

Hornblower turned to him, surprised by this comment. “Would you care to explain that remark, Mr Bush?”

Bush looked uncomfortable. “I was just thinking, sir. Why would Lambert have put all his secrets in a book like that? What would have happened if it fell into the wrong hands?”

“Most of it is gibberish,” said Maitland. “It would mean nothing, even to an accomplished French-speaker.”

“I think that Mr Bush has a point, sir,” Hornblower told him, the implication of Bush’s thoughts beginning to take hold. “If the book is in code, it would explain the attempts to recover it. And someone is very anxious to do so.”

“You think that they have the key?”

“I believe they must. And if we are to make any sense of this, we need that key for ourselves.”

“They’re bound to make another attempt, sir,” Bush pointed out.

“I don’t doubt it.” Hornblower looked carefully at the journal. It was small, bound in red leather, perfectly ordinary in appearance. “Tell me, Mr Maitland, does the house have a library?”

“A small one, yes. You have a plan, captain.” It was not a question.

“An idea as yet. It hinges on one factor.” Hornblower turned to Bush, who was looking puzzled. “Mr Bush, I would like you to do some research for me.”

Bush frowned. “Sir?”

“Indeed.” Hornblower held up the journal so that his lieutenant could see it clearly. “I want you to find me a book that looks exactly like this one.”

TBC


	7. Chapter Six

The library was indeed small, but, to Bush’s dismay, there were still several hundred dusty volumes crammed onto the shelves. It seemed that the owner of the house had at some point either been a voracious reader or was merely trying to enhance his social standing by presenting the appearance of being well read. Whatever the case, it was making Bush’s task much more difficult than he had imagined.

Two hours he had been trapped in here now, peering at the books with the aid of a single candle. The light that should have fallen through the large window was obscured both by heavy velvet drapes and an overgrown tree directly outside, bestowing upon the room a kind of murk that almost suggested it might be underwater. Two hours, and he was still no nearer to finding a twin for the journal.

The clock on the mantelshelf chimed eight o’clock. Bush’s stomach rumbled pointedly, reminding him that he had eaten nothing since his late breakfast. It must surely be time for dinner by now – he had not been aware that those in town kept such ungodly hours. He glanced in the tarnished mirror over the mantle. Anna had said that her grandmother was a high-stickler, and he couldn’t help feeling decidedly shabby. The blue coat, though the best of his civilian clothes, was years old and starting to wear, the brass buttons no longer holding the shine they once had. Not expecting such formality, he had neglected to pack knee-breeches and stockings, and felt just as uncomfortable now as he would turning up to an Admiralty banquet in trousers. His arm still stiff and painful, he had been forced to let Styles tie his neck-cloth, and though the big man had done his best, the result fell far short of Bush’s own exacting standards. He sighed. Anna was going to see him for the disappointment he surely was. He turned away from the mirror, unable to look at himself any longer, letting his gaze wander over the shelves once more.

It was then that finally he saw it – a small, red, leather-bound book in the case of the left of the fireplace. He pulled it out and examined it with relief – it was slightly larger than the journal, the cover a little cracked, but it would do. As he straightened, the book grasped triumphantly in one hand, he heard the door open behind him – he turned in surprise to see Anna standing on the threshold. She looked stunning, queenly in the poise of her head, the elegance of her figure in the classical lines of the pale green gown she wore. Though Bush was not a tall man, Anna had inherited her father’s height – there was barely an inch between them, their eyes meeting levelly as she entered the room.

“I came to find you,” she said quietly, looking around. “Have you found anything to interest you? I assume you must have little time for reading on board ship.” There was an edge to her voice that Bush couldn’t like.

“Anna - ” he began, but she shook her head.

“Oh, I know you cannot tell me. He will not let you.”

It was obvious to whom she was referring. “He is my commanding officer.”

“And you do everything that he tells you. I believe we had this conversation once before.”

“And I will give you the same answer as I did then. It will not change. I have my duty,” Bush said firmly.

Anna laughed, but there was no humour in it. “Men! All of you the same. Slave to the intangible force that is duty. Duty to whom, William?”

“I have served the crown for over twenty years, Anna. I seem to recall that you said you would not seek to change me.”

She whirled round, reaching out and grasping him by the upper arms, shaking him. He could have broken free in a moment if he chose, but he did not, letting her vent her frustration, all the time wishing that there was some way to make her understand – he had given the best part of his life in service to King and country. Was he now to discard it all in a heartbeat, sweep away everything he had ever known, everything that made him who he was? How could she expect such a thing of him?

“When will you think for yourself, Will?” Anna demanded. “Do you intend to spend your days blindly following orders without thinking of how they will affect those you love, those who matter most to you?”

“For God’s sake, Anna!” he shouted, making her jump. “What would you have me do?”

“Oh, I don’t understand you!” she cried.

“You hardly know me!” he countered.

She faltered slightly – it was the truth, they both knew it. “Are you honestly happy to continually be slave to the whims of others?”

Goaded too far, he exclaimed, “What do you wish me to do? Commit mutiny?!” The roar in his voice must have startled her – she stared at him with wide, shocked eyes. He lowered his tone, suddenly feeling cold. “I have seen the consequences of such actions, however well intentioned.” He could look at her no longer, eyes dropping, his vision swimming with flashes of the prison in Jamaica, of Kennedy dying slowly beside him...giving up his own life, his good name, to save them all…When he spoke again he was alarmed at how small and tight his voice sounded to his own ears. “Nothing is ever worth the price.”

“Will…” Her tone had changed, was all concern now, her grip on his sleeve slackening. “Will, I’m sorry. I didn’t…I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Please,” he whispered, head still bowed, “Please, never ask me to question my loyalty again.”

There was a long pause. He wondered whether she would walk away and leave him, knowing that she deserved an explanation, one that he at present could not give. Ever since Kennedy’s death, and especially since Hornblower’s promotion, the two of them had had an unspoken agreement never to speak of Renown. Even after two years, the memories were still raw.

Eventually, Anna spoke. “Come on,” she said softly, “They will be waiting for us.”

***

He looked so terribly sad.

Anna had seen dreadful things in her relatively short life, she could recognise the effects of tragedy and loss in others, could read them plainly in William’s eyes. It was only natural that during war men should undergo appalling experiences, walk hand in hand with death every day of their lives, but somehow she sensed that it was more than that. It was personal, and that she could understand. She wished fervently that he would tell her, would let down that reserve and allow her to comfort him, but he would not. Just as it had in that moment the previous night, his face had closed up, emotion hiding behind a blank mask that revealed nothing. He could not hide the pain in his eyes, however – that was plain for all to see.

She sighed inwardly. Perhaps one day he would be able to trust her enough to tell her. Perhaps one day he would love her enough to let her share his burden.

And perhaps one day she would let him share hers.

***

The drawing room was full of people.

Bush’s eyes scanned the faces as Anna led him further inside: there was Hornblower by the window with Richard Maitland, Annette Maitland detaching herself from her husband’s side to approach, a delighted smile on her face as she stood on tiptoe to place an enthusiastic kiss on each of Bush’s cheeks, mush to his discomfiture. He could see Hornblower’s amusement, though his friend was making a vain attempt to hide his smirk behind his hand. Bush wasn’t sure he would ever get used to Gallic effusiveness, and longed for English reserve.

“I am so very pleased to see you again, lieutenant,” Mrs Maitland said, “I trust that your wound is not paining you very much?”

“It is much improved, ma’am, thank you.”

“Bon. That is good. And so honourably gained, I know. Anna has told me,” Annette added in answer to Bush’s questioning glance. Her dark eyes flashed. “You can have no idea how it pleased me to learn that the Egalité is in the hands of the British.”

Bush was spared the necessity of replying and possibly incurring Hornblower’s wrath by revealing more than he should by a strident female voice, thick with a French accent, which cut across the chatter in the room like a gunshot.

“Is this him, then?” it demanded, high-pitched and imperious.

Bush found his attention drawn to the other group of people by the fireplace. Present was a tall, spare, elderly gentleman in an immaculate black velvet coat and tie wig who could only be the marquis, beside him a small, rather mousy young woman who stared at Bush from wide, nervous brown eyes and seemed to be trying to hide behind a large armchair. And in the armchair…

A sharp black gaze raked him steadily up and down, the eyes like buttons in a white, wrinkled face that was liberally patched with black silk. The marquise, for so it must be, seemed to be clinging to the styles of thirty years before, arrayed in purple satin and old lace, her wig the towering curled and powdered kind that Bush had only ever seen in a print shop window. Under her intense scrutiny he felt himself blushing, feeling acutely like a piece of horseflesh being appraised by a prospective owner. For one ridiculous moment he wondered whether she would wish to put him through his paces or ask to inspect his teeth.

At length, during which time Bush knew that everyone in the room had been observing his discomfort, the old lady sat back in her chair, holding out gnarled fingers bedecked with rings. Winking gemstones caught the light as Bush dutifully bent over the hand.

“Well,” the marquise remarked finally as he straightened, “he makes a good leg, at least. But I think I had imagined him to be taller, ma chérie. An Amazon such as yourself is in need of a tall man.”

“And why should I wish to have a man who towers over me, grandmaman?” Anna asked. “I should get the most dreadful crick in my neck.”

“Your mother knows all about such difficulties, of course – she married a mountain,” the old lady cackled. She regarded Bush once more, gaze lingering on his face, tapping her chin with one bony finger. “He is certainly as handsome as you described him,” she said with a mischievous smile. Bush felt his cheeks burning. “Do you speak, Monsieur Bush?”

He cleared his throat and managed to find his voice. “It is a pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

The marquise made a show of straining to hear him. “You will have to tell him to speak up, Anna – I cannot abide men who mumble. Do you speak French, Monsieur Bush?”

“I regret, ma’am - ”

“Teach him, ma petite,” the old lady said, interrupting him, “All English gentlemen should speak French.” She glanced back at Bush, raising an eyebrow. “I presume he is a gentleman?”

Before Bush could open his mouth and say something he might perhaps regret, Anna said hastily, “Of course, grandmaman, an officer and a gentleman. William was wounded in battle only a few weeks ago.”

The marquise’s black gaze took in Bush’s empty sleeve, and the sling. “I hope that you have killed the man responsible.”

“I did, ma’am,” he assured her.

She stared at him for a long moment, and then nodded as though satisfied. “We will talk further, Monsieur Bush.”

It seemed that he had passed some kind of test. The old lady began to berate Mrs Maitland for some oversight, and Bush found himself forgotten.

“I think she likes you,” Anna said quietly, sliding her arm through his. He was a little surprised by this – it seemed that she had put their altercation in the library aside, at least for now.

“I fear she thinks me a dull-witted fool,” he said resignedly.

“She thinks that of everyone. No one has a mind quick enough to compete with my grandmother.”

“If her tongue were any sharper I would have no need for razors,” announced a new voice, full of amusement. Bush turned to see the marquis standing behind him, his weathered face wreathed in smiles. “I am delighted to at last make your acquaintance, Monsieur Bush. Anna has told us all so much about you.”

“The pleasure is mine, sir,” Bush began, instinctively making his bow – a moment later the marquis had taken his hand, shaking it firmly.

“Continual deference fast becomes the height of tedium, monsieur,” the old man said swiftly in explanation. “Since coming to these shores I have had to learn humility, and your English customs. Tell me, may we count on your making up a four for whist later? I am sadly lacking in skilled opponents, and there is no pleasure in winning when one does not have to make use of one’s ingenuity.”

A little surprised by the abruptness of the question, Bush could only shake his head. “I am afraid I do not play, sir.”

The marquis blinked, as though Bush had just revealed himself to be the product of a lost civilisation. “Not play? But then surely you must be familiar with the rules of piquet? Vingt-et-un? Backgammon?” he tried hopefully.

“I regret, sir, that I am skilled in none of them.”

“You are not a gambling man, then, Will?” Anna said lightly, though there was a trace of relief in her tone.

“I am afraid not.”

“A man should gamble, ma chérie,” the marquis exclaimed. “For a man not to gamble…it is not natural! It is not the way of things!” A though suddenly seemed to strike him and he peered at Bush in consternation. “Mon Dieu – Monsieur Bush, you are not one of these…what are they called? A Methodist?”

Such was the ludicrous concern on the old man’s face that Bush could not help smiling. He shook his head once more. “No, sir.”

“Thank the heavens. I will teach you whist, Monsieur Bush. I will make of you an excellent player.”

Bush privately very much doubted that, but he thanked the marquis anyway.

“You are receiving an education this evening,” remarked Anna with a smile.

He returned it ruefully. “French and whist – two subjects in which I have long since considered myself too old in which to make any progress.”

“I think that you are too hard on yourself.”

“I merely know my own limitations.” The pair of brown eyes that had been watching him from across the room caught Bush’s attention once more – as he glanced up their owner hurriedly looked away, hovering behind the marquise’s chair. The girl seemed to be trying her best to make herself invisible, hunching her shoulders and clasping her hands tightly, her dark hair falling over her face. “Who is that?” he asked. He could understand how nervous the child must feel in such an intimidating atmosphere.

Anna looked. “Oh, that is my cousin, Salomé. Don’t be offended if she does not speak to you – she will speak to no one.”

“Is she shy?” Bush had suffered much from the affliction as a boy.

Anna shook her head. “When she was a child, she saw her father guillotined. She has not spoken since.”

“Good God. You mean that they - ”

“Yes. The guards forced her to watch. She still has the most dreadful nightmares.”

“Good God.” Bush said again. “The poor girl.” Salomé had glanced in his direction once more; eyes wide like those of a startled rabbit. He smiled at her – after a moment, she smiled back, ever so slightly, before quickly looking away again. There was terror lurking in those eyes. Bush felt his familiar anger at the French surfacing, redoubled at the thought of such inhuman treatment – how could anyone be so brutal as to make a child watch her own father butchered?

“We have all suffered at their hands,” Anna said sadly, “but Salomé bears the deepest scars.”

The door opened and butler announced that dinner was served, denying Bush the chance to properly absorb the haunted look on Anna’s face as she said those words. The marquise’s voice rang out once more as Annette and Salomé helped her to her feet. “Monsieur Bush, give me your arm,” she ordered, “Small men have their uses - your stride will not tire me, unlike Mount Maitland over there.”

“Never fear, ma’am, I shall escort my Amazonian daughter instead,” Richard Maitland told his mother-in-law good-naturedly.

Bush looked towards Anna, but she was at her father’s side, smiling, the moment broken. The marquise took a hold of his arm, her fingers gripping his sleeve like a vice, and he was being led away to dinner, his mind whirling with questions.

Why did Hornblower need the second book? Why was Salomé watching him? And just why did the expression in Anna’s eyes momentarily chill him to the bone?

TBC


	8. Chapter Seven

“Shouldn’t we be doing summat?”

Matthews glanced up from the saddle he was polishing to observe his friend – Styles was sitting on a nearby mounting block, chewing on the end of a piece of straw and soaking up the sunshine as though he had nothing else to do. “In case you ‘adn’t noticed, some of us are,” the bos’n said, gesturing to the now gleaming tack that had occupied his attention for the past two hours. Sitting in the sun and bringing the leather gradually to a shine had been quite pleasant until Styles had arrived to plague him.

The big man shook his head. “I don’t mean that. I mean we should be doin’ summat about whatever it is Mr ‘Ornblower’s got us riskin’ our lives t’ bring up ‘ere. Ain’t ‘e goin’ back to the Admiralty?”

“Stow it, Styles,” Matthews snapped, glancing quickly around the yard. It was deserted, the marquis only employing John, the coachman, and one groom, and there was no sign of either, but Hornblower would have their hides if he knew they had been discussing their mission out in the open like this. “And keep yer voice down. You never know who could be listenin’.”

“Well, someone knows what it is the captain’s carryin’, else we wouldn’t’ve been ‘eld up on the road. They weren’t no ‘ighway thieves,” Styles said scathingly, ignoring Matthews’s order. “Mr ‘Ornblower should tell us what it is we’re playin’ guard dog to.”

“Styles, will you shut it!”

“All I’m sayin’ is that we should be told. Bet Mr Bush knows.”

“Bet ‘e does. Maybe you should ask ‘im,” Matthews suggested, trying not to smile at the thought.

Styles pulled a face. “ I’d rather face down a dozen Frogs armed wi’ bayonets than ask Mr Bush anythin’ this mornin’.”

“Get out of bed on the wrong side, did ‘e?”

“Fer ‘im there ain’t no right side. Miss Maitland’s made ‘im see the doctor about ‘is shoulder, and ‘e don’t like that. I’m best off out o’ the way,” Styles said with feeling.

“Aye. Well, you’d best watch that tongue of yours, mate, or you’ll be feeling the rough edge of Mr Bush’s,” said Matthews. “We’ve ‘ad our orders – say nothin’. You’re the valet and I’m the groom, remember?”

“No one believes that.”

Matthews looked his friend up and down. Styles looked more like a prize fighter than a gentleman’s servant. “In your case, I’m not surprised.”

Styles threw him a ‘ha ha’ look. “Very funny. I - ” He broke off, listening.

“What’s the matter?”

“Thought I ‘eard summat.” The big man moved off across the yard in the direction of the loose boxes.

“Give over, Styles, it’s just one of the horses,” Matthews said, but instinct led him to put the saddle aside and follow anyway. Styles had crept over to the ladder that led into the hayloft.

“Didn’t sound like no ‘orse to me,” he muttered, peering up the ladder. “What’s up ‘ere?”

Matthews told him. As he did, there was a sudden sound from above, a kind of scuffling on the boards. They both listened – a moment later it came again, louder, right over their heads. Something was moving.

“There’s someone up there,” Styles hissed.

“Could be a rat,” Matthews suggested, even though he didn’t believe it for a moment.

“That weren’t no rat.” A second later, Styles was swinging himself onto the ladder, running up it as nimbly as he would the rigging on a ship. Matthews was close behind him, just in case the intruder turned out to be Peter, the marquis’s young stable boy. As his head became level with the top rung, he heard Styles shout: “Hey, you! Stop!” The big man’s tread pounded on the boards as he made off after their observer.

Matthews scrambled up into the loft – by the time he’d got to his feet, Styles was crouching by the window, looking down onto the mews that ran behind the houses. He looked over Styles’s shoulder, but there was no one to be seen. “Did you get a look at ‘im?”

“Only from be’ind – ‘e were out of the window before I could catch ‘im.”

“What did ‘e look like?”

“Small, thin, not much more’n a nipper. Dark hair. That’s all I saw.”

Matthews turned away from the window. “Come on – we’d better tell Mr ‘Ornblower. And you’d better ‘ope Mr Bush doesn’t find out about that loose tongue of yours.”

***

“How is the shoulder now, William?”

Bush flexed his arm experimentally. “Better, I think, sir. The doctor strapped it up again, and gave me the lecture about not unduly exerting myself.”

He sounded so disgruntled that Hornblower couldn’t help smiling. Bush, ever distrustful of doctors, had refused point blank to see anyone when Anna suggested it. However, he had been forced into a strategic retreat when it became clear that the doctor was in fact waiting downstairs, and that Anna had absolutely no intention of sending him away until he had attended to his prospective patient. Hornblower had to give Miss Maitland credit for her tactics – he knew that Bush was stubborn, but it seemed that in Anna he had met his match. “He does have a point,” he remarked now.

Bush snorted. “I’d like to see him trying to manage without the use of one of his arms,” he grumbled. “Damned quacks. Stewart gave me the same lecture before we left the ship. Twice.”

“Only twice? He must have been distracted.”

“Oh, he managed to keep up a constant flow, punctured by the odd homily, while changing three dressings and removing two sets of stitches, one of them mine.”

“That is impressive.” Hornblower turned from the window. “We need a plan of action, Mr Bush. I have been thinking.”

“That reminds me.” Bush reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a book. An old copy of Richardson’s Clarissa, it was not quite a match for the journal, but it would do, Hornblower noted as he took it. “May I ask what you intend to do with it, sir?”

“You may,” Hornblower replied. He put the book down on the table beside the bed and left it there.

“Sir - ” Bush began, frowning. “I don’t - ”

“I have need of some bedtime reading.”

Bush blinked. “I don’t think I follow, sir.”

“Do you not read before going to sleep, William?”

“Well, yes, sometimes, but - ”

Hornblower ignored his friend’s confusion and went over to the armchair by the fireplace. He could feel Bush’s perplexed gaze on his back as he carefully upended the chair, turning it over to reveal the base. “Do you have a knife to hand?”

No sailor worth his salt would be without a knife, and despite his rank Bush was no exception. He passed Hornblower a pocketknife just as there was a knock at the door. Hornblower froze, the blade touching the canvas base of the chair. “Who’s there?” he demanded.

“Matthews, sir,” came the muffled reply. “Got somethin’ to tell you, sir.”

“Very well, you’d better come in.”

Bush got up to open the door, revealing the concerned-looking bos’n, Styles hovering behind him.

“What is it, Matthews?” Bush asked once the two were inside, firmly shutting the door once more and leaning on it. Both he and Hornblower knew that Matthews would not trouble them unless it was important.

“We’ve just come from the stables, sir, me and Styles,” the bos’n said. “There were someone else there.”

“And you find this unusual?” said Hornblower, aware that stables were usually full of activity and conversations could not fail to be overheard.

“Aye, I do, sir. The marquis only employs two outside servants, and they were both busy elsewhere.”

“There were someone in the hayloft, sir,” Styles chipped in, evidently feeling that Matthews was taking too long to get to the point. “’E ran off when ‘e ‘eard me comin’ after ‘im.”

“We think he were listening to us, sir,” Matthews added. “Spyin’ on us.”

Hornblower exchanged a glance with Bush. “Styles, get out onto the landing,” he said, “I want to know if anyone comes past this door. Matthews, I think you had better tell us exactly what happened.”

***

It did not take Matthews long to tell his story.

“We’re not safe even in the house, sir,” Bush observed when the bos’n had finished.

“It would appear not,” Hornblower agreed.

“I don’t trust that footman, sir – he’s too quiet, creeps about all the time,” Bush said darkly. “I’d be willing to wager he’s up to something.”

Hornblower, used to his lieutenant’s suspicious nature, shook his head. “It is a footman’s role to be unobtrusive. But you are right, we must be on our guard.”

“Change of plan, sir?”

“No.” Hornblower returned his attention to the chair. Using the tip of the blade, he used the knife to score a six-inch line in the canvas at the base – after a few moments’ work; he had a hole large enough to put his hand through. Matthews and Bush were watching him in joint puzzlement as he reached into his coat and pulled the French journal from the deep concealed pocket Maria had sewn in a few days before.

“Sir, I thought that Mr Maitland had the book,” Bush said in surprise.

“I thought better of it – the strongbox would be too obvious. Mr Maitland is keeping a neat parcel of newspaper safe for us, though he does not know it.” Hornblower wrapped the book in his handkerchief and slid it into the hole. With some manoeuvring, he managed to lay it flat across two of the supporting slats. “I wish to throw our spy off the scent.”

“So we trust no one.”

Hornblower did not miss the slight bitter edge to Bush’s voice. “It is safer this way,” he said. “There is in this house someone who already knows about this book. I have no idea how they may have come by this information, but it is our duty to ensure that they discover nothing more. And if that means viewing everyone with suspicion, so be it.”

Matthews nodded. “Aye, sir.”

“Mr Bush?”

After a pause, Bush nodded reluctantly. “Yes, sir.”

“What do we do now, sir?” Matthews asked.

Hornblower righted the chair, peering underneath to ensure that the torn canvas was not in view. “We wait, Matthews. I have baited the trap – let us see what we catch.”

***

“It were just here, sir. ‘E were out of the window before I could get there,” Styles said.

Bush leaned out as far as he could without overbalancing. The wall below was some twenty feet away – the only way to reach it from the hayloft window would be to climb precariously onto the overhanging branch of the oak tree which grew behind the stable, and then lower yourself down. From there it would be a relatively easy drop into the mews behind. The wall was high enough to prevent anyone observing a figure in flight. “Whoever he was, he must have been a monkey to climb onto that branch,” he observed. “A child, you said?”

“Aye, sir. Young lad, certainly. ‘E were small enough.”

“It wasn’t the stable boy, Mr Bush,” Matthews said, reading Bush’s thoughts, “Peter’s a fair lad. Styles said this one were dark.”

The description didn’t fit any of the Maitland boys, either, Bush mused. “Are there any other children in the house? Other servants?”

“Not that I’ve seen, sir.”

“He could have come from anywhere. We stand little chance of finding him.” Bush swore under his breath. “The two of you had better keep your eyes open. If you see anything remotely out of the ordinary, I want to know about it, understood?”

“Aye, sir. We’ll keep a look out, won’t we, Styles?” Matthews asked, giving the big man a pointed glare.

“Oh, aye, we will,” Styles agreed quickly.

“Good.” Bush straightened, moving away from the window. As he did, the hay around his feet shifted and the sunlight suddenly caught something gleaming amongst the bales. Curious, he bent down, the fingers of his good hand scrabbling for it, but he failed to gain any purchase and the object slithered away from him as he touched it, skittering across the boards. “Damn it!”

“’Ere, sir, let me,” Styles said, reaching into the hay and scratching around for some moments before he came up with something glittering grasped in one massive fist. “Bloody ‘ell, what’s that doin’ there?” he wondered as he got a good look at it.

“It’s a watch, sir!” said Matthews in surprise. “Who would drop a watch up here?”

“It’s not just any old watch, Matthews,” Bush said quietly. His eyes were fixed on the silver timepiece, hanging on its chain from Styles’s fingers. It revolved slowly, the light glinting from the carefully polished case, from the initials WB engraved in meticulous copperplate on the lid. “It’s my watch, the one the thieves took.

“And I’d very much like to know what it’s doing here.”

TBC


	9. Chapter Eight

Anna stood at the foot of the ladder, listening to the voices that drifted down from the hayloft. She had been intending to take a ride in Hyde Park, but the footsteps and muffled words from above had caught her attention.

“What should we do now, sir?” Matthews asked.

There was a pause as Bush evidently considered the question. “Nothing until I have spoken to the captain,” he said eventually. “I don’t know what is happening here, but I certainly don’t like it.”

“That nipper must be involved with the ‘old up on the road, sir,” Styles put in, only to be hissed at by Matthews.

“We’ll say nothing of this to anyone. And the two of you are not even to discuss it amongst yourselves, is that understood?” said Bush sternly. “The captain is right – we can trust no one.”

Hearing the first steps on the ladder, Anna slipped silently back into the yard. She was intrigued and concerned by what she had heard, but now was not the time to confront William with it. There would be time enough for that later.

***

She had spent the last half an hour speaking with her grandmother. Though the marquise was sharp, forthright and unafraid to say exactly what she thought, Anna both respected and valued her opinion.

The old lady had still been in her bedchamber, appearing much smaller without her voluminous skirts and elaborate wig, her own iron-grey hair concealed beneath a lace cap. “I like your sailor, Anna,” she said, her black eyes dancing. “I hope though that he will have more to say for himself when I see him next. He is a quiet one.”

“I think he was a little overwhelmed, grandmaman. Will is unused to this sort of situation, meeting so many new people. He is - ”

The marquise waved a dismissive hand. “Yes, you have told me all about his background. If he is such a lion in battle, I fail to see why a drawing room should send him into terrors, regardless of his station. He holds himself well, has enough address, and a pleasant manner, hardly the backward countryman I was expecting. “

“You can be somewhat intimidating, grandmaman,” Anna told her. “You approve of him, then?”

“I can certainly see why he holds such attraction for you, chérie,” her grandmother said with a wicked smile. “He is a very handsome man indeed. Most arresting eyes.”

Anna felt herself blushing. She mumbled something, to which the marquise cackled and patted her hand.

“I shall look forward to speaking with him again. I must be sure of his intentions, n’est pas?”

“Just promise me that you will be gentle with him,” Anna pleaded, knowing well how her grandmother could reduce even the boldest of men to stammering schoolboys if she so chose.

The marquise raised a plucked eyebrow. “Do you not trust me, ma chérie?”

Anna smiled and shook her head. “Not at all.”

The old lady laughed again. Then she became abruptly serious. “I do think that you should watch him, though, Anna, no matter how good a man you believe him to be. Quiet men…you never know what they might be about.”

“Oh, grandmaman, I hardly think that William is ‘about’ anything,” Anna said, though the words quite suddenly sounded false as soon as they were out of her mouth. Her grandmother was usually aware of everything that went on in the house – she recalled her argument with Bush the day before, their altercation in the library before dinner…had the discord between them come to the marquise’s ears? Hornblower was going to great pains to keep his mission a secret, but the marquise was canny, bluffs and stories would not easily deceive her. “He and Mr Hornblower are here as Pa’s guests. Will’s shoulder needs to heal before he can return to his ship. They are awaiting orders, that is all.”

It was plain from the glint in the marquise’s eye that she did not believe a word. She lay back on the pillows, one claw-like hand reaching out to take Anna’s. “You know how much I despise secrets, Anna,” she said quietly, “You grandfather has too many, as did your uncle. There are secrets in this house, and they involve your sailor, I am sure of that. Deceit is no foundation for a marriage.”

“William is not deceiving me.” Not deliberately, not maliciously, Anna thought, he would never hurt me like that. There are some things that cannot be said.

“I just wish you to be careful, chérie, that is all.” Her grandmother squeezed her hand. “The women of this family have endured so much pain at the hands of their men folk…I do not want to see it happen again.”

Anna got to her feet, suddenly wanting to bring the conversation to an end. “It will not,” she said, and meant it.

The old lady regarded her steadily, and nodded. “Take care. I do not like to think of underhand dealings in this house.”

As Anna left the room, she was more determined than ever to discover exactly what was going on under her nose.

***

Now she stood at Melody’s head, checking methodically over her bridle and bit, pretending not to notice Bush as he came over the cobbles towards her.

“Going out?” he asked quietly, and she managed a creditable start of surprise.

“Oh! You made me jump! I had given you up – anyone would think you were avoiding me.”

He looked at her; one eyebrow raised slightly, his hand stroking Melody’s dappled neck. In the bright sunlight his eyes appeared paler than ever. Arresting eyes… “And why should I be avoiding you?” His tone was light, but there was a genuine question in it. “I thought that perhaps you were avoiding me.”

“I would never do that, not unless you gave me reason to,” Anna said.

“And have I? Given you reason?”

“I have hardly seen you since you arrived. You spend all your time closeted with Mr Hornblower or my father. Perhaps I should be jealous.” She kept her own voice light, but could tell from his expression that he did not believe it.

He sighed. “You know that I would tell you if I could. Please don’t let us quarrel over this, Anna.”

“I was going for a ride,” she announced, changing the subject before one of them said something that they did not mean. She would not question him now. “Will you join me? I would not ask if I did not care for your company.”

Bush ran an appreciative eye over Melody, his fingers brushing over her withers and back. He bent and the mare put a hoof obediently into his hand. “She’s a pretty animal,” he remarked when he straightened, “About the right weight for you, I should say. Clean lines – does she move well?”

“Very. She has quite a turn of speed. Will you see for yourself? My grandfather has a gelding which never gets enough exercise,” said Anna, watching him in surprise. For some reason she had not expected him to know anything about horses. Pigs and cows, perhaps, but not horseflesh. He rubbed Melody’s nose, and she snickered, tossing her head.

“It’s been a long time since I last rode.” Bush looked sorely tempted, a distinct gleam in his eye as he glanced towards the loose boxes.

“They say that one never forgets how.”

“And what about this?” he asked; gesturing to the sling he still wore. “Would you have me incur the doctor’s wrath?”

Now Anna raised an eyebrow of her own. “Do you mean to tell me that you were going to obey the doctor’s orders, Mr Bush?”

Their eyes met, and after a moment he laughed and shook his head. “It seems you have the measure of me, Miss Maitland.”

“Then you will come?”

“Give me five minutes to rid myself of this damned thing,” he said, tugging at the sling.

Anna smiled, pleased. “I will have John bring the horses round.” Bush nodded and strode off towards the house. Just when she thought that she knew him, he had the capacity to surprise her once again. She watched him vanish around the corner, and wondered whether she would ever have his measure.

***

Salomé was in the hall when Bush came down the stairs.

Although she hesitantly returned his smile, she was looking nervous, twisting a handkerchief between her fingers. Her tiny figure appeared lost in the expanse of the hall, the plain cream muslin dress she wore drab in comparison with the faded grandeur around her. It was a shame – had she not looked so hunted she would have been a very pretty young woman. There was great beauty in the big dark eyes that were raised tremblingly to meet Bush’s own. He found him suddenly struck by a desire to take her in his arms and comfort her; such was the vulnerability in those eyes.

Instead, he sat down beside her. Anna would be waiting, but this girl puzzled and concerned him. “It’s a beautiful day,” he remarked, feeling foolish. Small talk had never been something he excelled at. Economical with words himself, it was a difficult thing to begin what would be from necessity a one-sided conversation.

Salomé glanced at the patches of bright sunshine that fell onto the chequered floor, and smiled a little.

“Too nice a day to be spent indoors,” Bush tried. A nod was his only response. Why was the poor child in here all by herself? Though he had been shy as a boy, he had never been lonely, and could not stand to think of others being alone. Salomé’s solitude did not seem to be of the pleasurable kind. “Do you often hide in here?”

Again, a nod, after a slight pause. He wondered whether if he fetched paper and pencil she would answer his questions in writing, or if she did not communicate at all.

They sat in silence for some minutes, Bush searching in vain for something to say that did not sound trite or require a reply, Salomé staring at the floor. Occasionally she would risk a glance at him from beneath the curtain of her hair, her eyes searching his face in something that almost appeared to be wonder.

Eventually, he said, “Do you ride? Anna has persuaded me into the saddle, but I am sure she would be happy if you were to accompany us. You should not be in here on your own, it isn’t right.”

To his surprise, she reached over and put a tiny hand on his arm, squeezing it slightly. There was a little smile on her face now, even as she shook her head. She stood up, and her fingers lightly touched his cheek, the slightest caress, before she slipped away, leaving him alone in the hall.

Bush watched her go, even more perplexed by her than before.

There was a knock at the door at that moment, startling him and drawing his attention from Salomé’s strange behaviour. He waited, expecting to see Robert or Merriman, the butler, appear from below to answer it. After a few moments, no one had come, and the knocking began again, louder and with enough force for Bush to assume that the person responsible were laying siege to the house.

He looked around, but could see no one, and so got up and went to the door, opening it cautiously. On the step stood a very tall, very thin man, a Malacca cane raised in one hand as though he had been using the head to beat upon the door. Lowering it, he leant his head back a little and looked Bush up and down with disdain, an action that immediately put him quite out of charity in Bush’s thoughts. Though he was dressed immaculately in perfectly cut buff coat, buckskins and gleaming top boots, his beaver hat set at a rakish angle on his fashionable cropped hair, the set of his shoulders and the trimmed moustache that adorned his upper lip marked him out immediately as a military man.

“You are too slow to answer the door,” he snapped, and Bush wasn’t sure whether he was surprised or not to discover that the new arrival was a Frenchman. “I will inform the marquis that his servants are slack. Tell him that I am here.” He pushed past Bush into the hall, removing his gloves and throwing them and his hat onto the marble table to the side of the door. When Bush did not move, the man glared at him. “Did I say something you do not understand? Tell the marquis that Francois du Vallon wishes to see him immédiatement!”

It was fortunate that at that moment Robert appeared from below, preventing Bush from voicing the comment that was on the tip of his tongue. The footman seemed flustered, and was panting as though he had just run up several flights of stairs. “My apologies, sir - ”

“You can save your apologies for later, when you explain where you were to the marquis,” said Bush sharply. What the devil had the man been doing? The running of a household was really no different from that of a ship, all went well as long as the crew pulled their weight and executed their duties as they should. Bush could never stand sloppiness in his men, and could not believe that the marquis would tolerate it in his staff. “This gentleman wishes to see his lordship. Kindly inform him that he is here. And button up your jacket.”

“Yes, sir,” Robert said hurriedly, fumbling with the buttons.

“If Mr Hornblower asks for me, I am out riding with Miss Maitland,” Bush added, picking up his hat. The Frenchman was watching him carefully. Bush bowed slightly. “Good day, sir,” he said, injecting as much sarcasm into the words as possible, and left before the man could reply.

***

Anna was waiting at the corner with the horses. “What kept you?” she asked, concerned. “I was about to send in a search party.”

“I met Salomé in the hall.” Bush swung himself up into the saddle, his shoulder thankfully protesting only a little.

“She floats about the house like a ghost.” Anna sighed. “It is so difficult to know what she is thinking. I have tried to draw her out, but without success.”

It felt comfortable to be back in the saddle after so long. In the past few years Bush had only ridden on occasional shore excursions or during the rare action that included regular army troops. The bay gelding was spirited and a little skittish, eager to be given his head – Bush checked him, keeping him on a tight rein until they reached the park. “Are you well acquainted with her?” he asked as they turned into Brook Street.

Anna shook her head. She was wearing a gentleman’s beaver with a curled brim over her burnished curls, an affectation that only a woman with her height could carry off. Her riding habit was dark blue cloth, a neat row of brass buttons down the jacket and at the cuffs. Bush felt an unfamiliar flush of pride, pride that he was riding beside such a handsome woman. “I barely knew of her existence until we came to live with grandmaman,” Anna said. “My uncle was away from home for long stretches, and he took Salomé with him. Her mother died when she was very young. It is no wonder she was so affected by his death – for most of her life, he was all she knew.”

“Is she always alone?”

“I have tried to persuade her to take an interest in things, but she will only smile a little and shake her head. I often find her sitting by herself. My grandmother is happy to use her as an unpaid companion, and though she sympathises, my mother finds her trying. It is difficult to know what to do.”

“Bloody French butchers,” Bush growled.

Anna gave him a sidelong glance. “Will, please don’t agitate yourself over Salomé. She has been this way for some years now – I doubt if anyone can truly reach her.”

He sighed sharply. “It angers me to think of such an innocent being damaged forever by those devils.”

They fell into silence as the greenery of Hyde Park came into view at the end of the street. The sudden bustle of traffic in Park Lane abruptly reminded Bush of why he disliked the city. Though London was relatively empty of society at this time of year, there were still plenty of commercial and commuter vehicles to stir up the mud and dust. He tried not to cough as Anna led the way across the street to the Grosvenor gate, suddenly longing for open horizons and clear air, Hotspur running before a stiff breeze. The city in comparison was stuffy and unhealthy, unseasonably warm and uncomfortable. He pulled at his neck cloth, loosening it a little, feeling the dust catch in his throat once more.

“The best time to ride is early in the morning,” Anna remarked, “I have enjoyed many a gallop here at dawn.”

“With a groom in attendance, I hope,” Bush said, and meant it.

She glanced over her shoulder at him, smiling innocently, a mischievous glint in her eye.

“Have you no decorum?” he asked wearily.

“None whatsoever. Come on!” Anna put her heels to the grey’s flanks and the mare jumped into a trot. Bush let his impatient mount do the same, following Anna as she expertly negotiated the handful of carriages that slowly traversed the park’s main road. The occupants were mainly elderly ladies hidden beneath parasols and large hats, and those either too indolent or lacking the funds to decamp to the country for the spring.

There were few other riders about. Ahead, Anna was urging the mare into a canter. Bush’s horse was tossing his head, trying to break the hold on his bit – he eased his firm grip on the reins a little and the bay leapt forwards, hooves thundering on the baked earth. Anna glanced round and laughed delightedly – pointing to the bend in the road ahead with her whip, she called out, “I’ll race you!”

“Anna!” he shouted, but she was away. Cursing her for an irresponsible hoyden, Bush let the bay have his head. The animal was off as though he had been shot, almost causing Bush to lose his balance, powerful strides eating up the ground. For an exhilarating moment Bush could have been a boy again, borrowing one of the horses from his uncle’s forge at his cousin Ned’s behest and taking it for an illicit gallop across the fields. The two of them had learnt to handle the animals without bit or bridle, until Ned had been thrown and broken his leg in three places. Bush had felt the back of his father’s hand that night, but it had failed to cure him of his love of riding. Only the lure of the sea had managed that, though it had never been completely erased. He had almost forgotten the thrill of it.

He was gaining on Anna easily. The grey was a pretty stepper, but she lacked the bay’s length of stride. Bush checked his mount a little, content to let the mare tire. There were hoof beats approaching ahead - he lifted his gaze from Anna’s back for a moment to gauge the distance to the bend in the road, and quite suddenly came face to face with another rider coming in the opposite direction. The man had his hat pulled low over his face, ostensibly to guard against the sun, but in that split second of their passing Bush was sure that there was something very familiar about the golden hair beneath the hat, and the flash of blue eyes that briefly met his before sliding swiftly away. “Good God…” he breathed, almost without realising it.

Then the man was past him, urging his horse on. Bush twisted, trying to see over his shoulder at the man’s retreating back. Surely it could not have been…no, it was impossible! He pulled sharply on the reins to slow the bay, in that instant not caring if he ruined the animal’s mouth. He simply had to be sure!

The bay however, had other ideas. He snorted, eyes rolling, fighting Bush’s grip. His forelegs flailed madly in mid-air, and abruptly the world tilted. Bush desperately tried to keep his seat, the muscles in his thighs and calves gripping the horse’s flanks, but to no avail. His feet were suddenly free of the stirrups and he was falling. He heard Anna shout his name before he slammed into the ground, his head hit something hard and everything went black.

TBC


	10. Chapter Nine

“William? Will, it’s Anna, say something, please!”

She bent over him – he lay crumpled in the mud of the road where he had fallen, utterly still, his eyes closed. Duc had bolted, and just at that moment she didn’t care where the stupid animal had got to. Gently she lifted William’s head, taking it in her lap. Though she was no judge, his neck did not appear to be broken, but there was a lump fast forming on the back of his head. The road was littered with large stones – he must have cracked his skull against one as he fell.

“Will, please, love, wake up.” She tapped the side of his face, hoping to elicit a response, but there was none. Anna sat back on her heels, glancing desperately around her for help. The road was empty, no one within sight. A few yards away, Melody stood nonchalantly cropping the grass, but there was no question of her leaving Bush, even for a few moments. She felt his throat for a pulse, and was relieved to find it beating steadily. There was no choice in the matter – she would have to wait here until someone came along. Even had she wanted to, it would be impossible for her to lift William and get him onto Melody’s back.

Hours seemed to pass as she sat there in the dirt, the midday sun making a surprisingly strong appearance and warming her shoulders. Heedless of appearances, she pulled off the jacket of her riding habit, folding it up and slipping it under Bush’s head. He did not move – a bruise blossomed across one side of his forehead, disappearing into his hair. Anna could not understand how he had come to fall – there had been nothing on the road to spook Duc so, no unfamiliar animals, no sudden noises. The bay was always difficult, but William had seemed well able to handle him. All Anna had seen was a lone horseman on the opposite side of the road, nothing remotely out of the ordinary. It was very strange.

“Is everything all right?” a voice asked suddenly.

Anna started, looking up – she had been so caught up in her own thoughts that she had not even registered the sound of wheels rattling down the road. A landaulet had drawn up in front of her, and a middle-aged woman with dark curls spilling from beneath a chip straw hat was leaning out, concern written in the lines of her face.

“Good gracious, I can see that it clearly is not,” she said, answering her own question. She turned to the man sitting beside her. “Tom, do something, quickly! My husband is a doctor,” she added as the man threw open the door and climbed down. He was tall and spare, with an intelligent appearance and a somewhat ruddy complexion, Anna noticed absently as he crouched down beside her.

“He was thrown,” she explained, but the doctor was already examining Bush, supporting his head and feeling for the bump there. He opened each of William’s eyelids in turn, and felt for his pulse, frowning slightly.

“He has given his head a crack,” the man muttered, scratching his head beneath the horsehair wig he wore, “The impact has probably rattled his brain inside the skull. He should come round in due course.” His voice was clipped, precise, very professional.

“Well, we can’t leave him lying there,” said his wife. She had descended from the landaulet and was looking curiously over his shoulder at Bush for all the world as though an injured man were a pleasant afternoon’s diversion for her. “George, come and help the doctor lift the poor man into the carriage,” she called to the coachman.

“Gently,” the doctor admonished as George obediently offered his assistance. Between them they carried William to the landaulet, laying him down carefully on one of the seats. The movement brought not even a flicker of the eyelids in response.

“Where do you live, my dear?” the doctor’s wife was asking kindly. Anna could not place her accent. While it could not really be termed as ‘common’, she was certainly not from London, or anywhere nearby.

“Hanover Square,” Anna said almost mechanically. “Thank you. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come along.”

The woman patted her arm. “Serendipity, love. Happy coincidence. Now, come on, we’ll take you home. I’m sure your husband will be fine with some care and rest.”

“Oh, he’s not my husband,” said Anna as she was ushered into the carriage. William’s face was terribly pale – she reached out to take one of his hands.

“Ah. Your intended, perhaps?”

“Something like that. I can’t thank you enough, really.”

The woman waved her thanks away, settling herself at Anna’s side. Her husband climbed onto the box beside the coachman. “It’s quite all right. May I have the pleasure of knowing who I’m assisting?”

Anna introduced herself and Bush. “And you, ma’am?”

“Elizabeth Wakefield. That’s my husband, Thomas,” she added, nodding towards the doctor’s back. “Your fiancé is an army man?”

“Navy. He was wounded, that is why he is away from his ship.”

Mrs Wakefield tutted and shook her head. “Dear me, he’s not having much luck, is he? You’ll have to take good care of him, my dear; it looks as though he needs it.”

Anna squeezed William’s hand, and gently brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “I fully intend to, ma’am, if only he would let me.”

***

The raised voices in the library drew Hornblower’s attention as he came down the stairs.

It was difficult to make out anything definite, muffled as they were by the thick wood of the door, but it was obvious that there were far from friendly words being exchanged. He stepped back quickly into the shadows of the stairwell as the library door was flung open and a tall man in a buff coat stalked out.

“That is the final warning, my lord,” he spat, the last two words heavy with derision, “If we do not receive our payment, we will have no choice but to foreclose. And I know that you will not enjoy the consequences should we do so.”

“Please!” The marquise was hurrying behind the newcomer, wringing his hands. “A few days more, I beg you! I have had little time, no opportunity - ”

“Then I suggest that you find one, and swiftly. You were aware of the terms – the time for payment has now come.” The unknown Frenchman picked up his hat and gloves from the hall table and opened the front door. “I will see myself out. Remember – you have two days, no more.” The door slammed shut behind him.

Hornblower watched as the marquis miserably turned and walked back towards the library. A world of care seemed to suddenly have descended on his shoulders at that moment, turning the normally cheerful demeanour into that of a worried old man. When he was sure that the marquis would not emerge, Hornblower slipped from his hiding place and opened the front door. He hoped that the mysterious Frenchman would not have been able to hail a cab.

“What yer doin’, sir?” asked a voice behind him, making him jump. He turned to see Styles standing there, a pile of laundry in his arms.

“Styles,” Hornblower sighed, relieved. He frowned at the washing. “Where are you going with that?”

“Downstairs, sir – it’s quicker this way. Is something wrong?”

Hornblower decided that pointing out to Styles that servants used the back stairs would take too long. “Yes. Come with me.”

Styles considered this for a moment, then dumped the laundry under the table and followed his captain out of the house. “Where’re we goin’, sir?” he asked.

The Frenchman was in view at the top of the road, apparently in no hurry. “We’re going for a walk, Styles. I feel in need of some exercise.”

***

“Will? Will, can you hear me?”

Bush groaned, trying to push through the fog that filled his brain. The voice was indistinct, wavering, but he recognised it. With a concerted effort, he managed to open his eyes.

A face swam before them, ghostly in the gloom, a concerned face framed by a halo of bright golden hair, the brilliant blue eyes gazing anxiously down at him. For a moment, a name hovered on his lips before reality thankfully returned and Anna’s image came into focus. “Oh, thank goodness,” she said with a relieved smile. “You gave me quite a start.”

“You see, love? I said he’d be all right,” another voice chipped in, one that Bush was sure he’d never heard before. It was strident, and had an accent that reminded him of his Leeds-born grandmother’s. He squinted, trying to make out the speaker, but it was too dark in the room. Shadows shifted out of his immediate line of sight, playing hide and seek with him.

“He appears alert enough,” a third voice, confident and somewhat familiar, announced. Someone bent over the bed, but Bush’s head was spinning and he closed his eyes once more. He felt gentle fingers moving over his skull, and hissed in pain as they found a very sore spot behind his left ear. “That swelling will be easily reduced with a cold compress. A few days’ rest and he should be fine.”

“That is such a relief,” Anna said, “I cannot thank you enough.”

“Think nothing of it, my dear,” the northern woman told her. “Just you make sure he takes better care of himself. These fighting men – they throw themselves into anything without a second’s thought for their women!”

“Mr Bush, how many fingers am I holding up?” that self-assured and annoyingly familiar voice asked. Bush opened his eyes to see a hand hovering above his face.

“Three,” he said, his voice emerging as a croak. He tried to see the owner of the hand, but they had moved, lurking in the shadows cast by the bed curtains.

“Very good. You’ll do,” the voice told him, and someone patted his shoulder. “Get some rest.”

Bush was only too glad to do so. He heard the mysterious woman say, “We should leave you in peace,” before the voices faded and he sank into the darkness once more.

***

Disappointingly, the Frenchman had strolled down George Street, heading in the direction of Piccadilly.

Hornblower and Styles followed at a discreet distance, ducking into doorways whenever the man chanced to glance round. It was a fruitless task – the Frenchman was walking like any other gentleman out for some air, swinging his cane and touching his hat to any ladies he passed. The anger he had displayed when talking to the marquis earlier seemed to have evaporated.

“What’re we doin’, sir?” Styles whispered again. “The Frenchie don’t seem t’ be a threat.”

Hornblower had to admit that the big man was right. But the altercation he had witnessed in the hall concerned him. Though it was not at all unlikely for the marquis to be visited by a fellow countryman, this one bothered him. The man walking ahead of them was a soldier; he would lay odds on it. With the codebook in the house, the sudden arrival of a French officer was something of a coincidence, and Hornblower did not like coincidences.

The Frenchman stopped walking. Hornblower quickly pulled Styles behind a carriage that stood at the kerb. Peering round the side of the vehicle, he watched as the man looked down the street, eyes flicking around him, before making his way up the steps of a house on the port side. After a few moments, the door was opened, and he vanished inside.

“We’ve lost ‘im now, sir,” said Styles gloomily.

Hornblower found a pencil and a scrap of paper in his pocket and noted down the address. There was no knowing whether it would be relevant later. The coachman of the chaise they crouched behind was giving them curious looks – Hornblower ignored him and straightened, turning back the way they had come. It was a long walk back up Old Bond Street, especially in the sudden afternoon warmth. His throat felt very dry all of a sudden.

“What now, sir?” Styles asked.

Hornblower began to retrace their steps. “Home,” he said, and Styles brightened considerably when he added, “We can stop for an ale on the way.”

***

Anna sat in the darkened bedroom, twisting the chain of William’s watch between her fingers and pondering her situation.

Grateful as she was to them, the Wakefields both perplexed and intrigued her.

At the top of the stairs, Mrs Wakefield had stood with her hand on the doorknob of Hornblower’s room, opposite William’s. “In here, is it?” she asked, turning the knob. When Anna had informed her otherwise, her fingers still lingered there, even as she pulled the door shut. There had been a curious little smile that touched her lips at the mention of Hornblower’s name, Anna realised.

Once across the threshold of the right room, Mrs Wakefield had pulled the drapes as soon as her husband, with Robert’s assistance, had carried Bush inside. “Better for a sore head than bright sunlight,” she said in explanation as the chamber was thrown into stygian gloom. Anna was too concerned about William to argue, but as she sat silently now at his bedside these two things had struck her as rather odd.

Then there was Doctor Wakefield. He certainly seemed to know what he was doing, expertly making Bush comfortable in the bed and dressing the bruise with speed and skill that could only have come from long experience. When Bush had come round, much to Anna’s relief, the doctor announced that there would be no lasting damage. “Mr Bush is very resilient, have no fear,” he assured her as he left. It was not until some time later that Anna remembered she had not told him William’s name.

He had been on the box when she had spoken to Mrs Wakefield, and would have been unable to hear their conversation over the rumble of the carriage wheels on the road. And his wife had had no opportunity to tell him, so how had he known? It was all very strange.

She was distracted from her musings by a sound from the bed. William was moving, his head turning on the pillow. Putting the watch aside, Anna bent over him, and after a moment his eyes opened, blinking up at her.

“You had me very worried there for a while,” she told him softly.

He gave her a weak smile. “…sorry. I’ll try not to let it happen again.”

“You had better not. Do you remember what happened?”

“The horse…” He frowned, considering. “Did I fall…?”

“Duc threw you.”

He nodded, and then winced. “My fault for…checking him too soon.”

“Why did you?”

“Could I have some water?” he asked, catching sight of the carafe on the bedside table. Anna filled a glass and put it into his hands, supporting his neck as he drank gratefully.

“Why did you?” she repeated, when she laid him back on the pillows, “Check Duc like that?” She recalled the startled expression she had seen on his face before he fell. It had been nothing to do with Duc rearing, she was sure of that. There had been genuine shock in his eyes.

He was suddenly unable to meet her gaze, his fingers plucking restlessly at the counterpane.

Anna caught hold of his hand, stilling the movement. “Will, you looked as though you’d seen a ghost,” she said seriously.

There was a long pause. “Will?” she prompted.

At length, he sighed, raising his eyes to hers. “I thought that I had.”

Perhaps it was not the time, but Anna could not allow a chance for explanations to escape her. “Who was it?” she asked gently, “Whom did you think you saw?”

“I must have been imagining things…it could not have been. He died some time ago.” A shadow of pain crossed his pale face, and Anna knew that it had nothing to do with the accident. “It should never have…happened. He was a good man…”

She stroked his hair, seeing that talking was tiring him. “A trick of the mind, perhaps? The memory does cheat.”

“Yes…perhaps you’re right.” His eyes had closed again – he was dropping into sleep. Anna watched him, running her thumb gently back and forth across his fingers as his breathing became steady and even.

When she was sure that he was asleep, she retrieved the watch from her pocket. Even had she not known, it would have been easy to recognise the watch as William’s. He had obviously taken care of it over the years – there was barely a scratch on the case. But, she wondered, why would a thief take a valuable item such as this and then carelessly drop it in the hay? And why would such a thief be hiding in the hayloft in the first place? Even if the child had conceivably found the watch, or possibly stolen it from one of the brigands himself, he would have had no clue to the owner’s identity from two unremarkable initials. Unless, of course, the owner was known to him…

Anna shook her head. It was all most confusing. But the watch, the Wakefields and William’s ghost…they were all connected somehow, she was sure of it.

She rose from her chair and bent over, dropping a kiss on William’s brow. He stirred slightly, a tiny smile turning up the corner of his mouth, but did not wake when she gently withdrew her fingers from his.

The watch still clasped in her hand, Anna slipped out of the room. Somehow, she was going to get to the bottom of this.

TBC


	11. Chapter Ten

The schoolroom was playing host to just one occupant when Anna put her head around the door.

Her eldest brother Jack sat at the table, his fair head bent over a book. Always keen on the sea, since he had met Bush and Hornblower he had been obsessed with anything nautical, persuading their father to buy him any volume connected with seamanship. He had been delighted when his precious collection of Naval Chronicles had been unearthed in the house at Amsworth and brought to London, and knew almost all of the ship movements for the past few years. If anyone could answer her question, it would be Jack.

“I thought I would find you here,” she remarked, shutting the door behind her. Jack only grunted in response. “Where are Sammy and George?”

“Mr Feltham took them to the park. It’s quieter without them here.” He turned another page of his book. “How is Mr Bush?”

“You know about that?” Anna asked, surprised. Once he was engrossed he rarely noticed anything that happened around him.

“I heard the commotion downstairs. Grandpapa should sell Duc – he’s a menace. He bit John once, nearly took his arm off.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, it was not that bad!” she exclaimed, shaking her head at schoolboy exaggeration.

“He had to have twelve stitches – he told me.”

“This time I don’t think it was Duc’s fault. Jack, I wanted to ask you something.”

There was a pause. Jack sighed sharply and put aside his book. “If I answer the question, will you stop plaguing me?”

“Of course.” She tried not to smile. He was very sincere in his intention to join the navy as soon as he was old enough, studying constantly. “I thought that you might know which ship William served on before the Hotspur.”

“He hasn’t told you?” Anna shook her head, and Jack shrugged. “The answer’s easy enough - it was HMS Renown.”

Anna frowned. “Renown? Have I heard that name before?” There was a familiar ring to it.

“I should think so – the rumours were all over the newspapers two years ago.”

“Rumours? Of what nature?”

Jack jumped up and hurried over to the cupboard in the corner. After some moments of rifling through stacks of yellowing paper, he pulled out a crumpled newssheet and handed it to her. “The Admiralty tried to keep it quiet, but some of the facts leaked out. Pa must remember – he read the reports with me.” Puzzled, Anna took the paper – he leaned over her shoulder, pointing to a particular column. “The officers of the Renown were put on trial in Kingston – for mutiny.”

***

“It seems that I cannot leave you for more than an hour,” a stern voice said, jolting Bush out of sleep.

He opened his eyes to find Hornblower sitting beside the bed, watching him carefully. “I’m sorry, sir,” he began, trying to sit up, but Horatio’s hand on his arm checked him. The room spun round him wildly, as though he were inside a top.

“No, stay there. How is the head?”

“Fine, sir. Or at least it will be when these damned bells stop ringing,” Bush said, wincing as he laid his head back on the pillow. “There has been a development, sir.” He remained still for a few moments, gathering his thoughts, before beginning to tell Hornblower about his discovery in the hayloft. He had already decided that, whatever he thought he had seen in the park, it would be better to keep it to himself for now. There was no need to bother his captain with hallucinations and phantoms.

“The plot thickens, Mr Bush,” Hornblower said when Bush had presented him with the facts. “The question is: Did the child drop the watch, or was he seeking to return it to you?”

“He could hardly have known it was mine, sir. There must be dozens of men in London with the initials WB.”

“I fear that he may be connected with the brigands on the road in some way. Hmm,” Hornblower mused. “With every new development, the less I like this situation.”

“Perhaps it’s time to take the book to the Admiralty, sir,” Bush suggested.

Hornblower did not look happy with the idea, but he nodded. “Now we are aware of the presence of our spy, it would seem the most prudent course of action.”

“Is the book -?”

“Safe? Yes. I checked as soon as I returned - ” Hornblower broke off as there was a tap at the door. It opened to reveal Anna on the threshold, silhouetted against the light from the landing. He got to his feet. “I’ll leave you to rest, William. I hope you will be a little more careful next time.”

Bush raised an eyebrow, an immediately wished that he hadn’t – even that movement was exquisitely painful. “Yes, sir,” he said, entirely failing to keep the sarcasm from his voice. “Next time I shall politely ask the horse if he would do me the honour of not throwing me.”

A smile flickered around Hornblower’s mouth. “Good idea,” he agreed, and gave Bush’s shoulder a friendly squeeze before departing. Bush closed his eyes once more, and wondered whether it was worth asking the bell ringers that seemed to be holding a practise in his head if they would very much mind leaving him in peace.

***

“Mr Hornblower, may I have a word?”

He looked surprised by the request, but followed her into the spare bedchamber at the end of the landing. Anna shut the door behind them and leaned against it. Hornblower watched her with a mix of curiosity and suspicion as she reached into the pocket of her dress and withdrew Bush’s watch. In silence, she held it up by the chain, tilting it at angle so that it caught the light from the window, letting it slowly revolve.

“That is not a word, Miss Maitland, that is a watch,” Hornblower said at length.

“Indeed it is a watch. I believe you can guess to whom it belongs?”

“From the initials I would say that it is Mr Bush’s watch.”

“The watch that was taken from him on the road two nights ago, Mr Hornblower,” said Anna. “The watch that was found in the hayloft, dropped by a child who had been listening to the conversation of your men. Yes, I know,” she added when he opened his mouth to protest, “I know that something is happening in this house, something you are trying to keep a secret from us all. I do not like being lied to, Mr Hornblower, so please do not bother.”

Hornblower folded his hands behind his back and rocked slightly on his heels. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “From this I take it that Mr Bush has - ”

“William has said nothing – his loyalty towards you is too great,” Anna snapped. “You should be thankful – I begged him to tell me more than once, but he would not. I have been using my own eyes and ears. Something very strange is going on in my home, Mr Hornblower, and I wish to know what it is. I have had enough of secrets.”

He regarded her steadily, cautiously, as though trying to decide whether he could trust her.

“I do not intend to give you away, captain,” she told him. “I may be able to help you.”

At last he seemed to come to a decision. His dark eyes met hers, and the expression within them was serious. “Very well, Miss Maitland, it seems I must surrender.”

***

“Did he see you?”

Wakefield shook his head. “I took care to remain in the shadows. I think he was too dazed to recognise me.”

“Thank goodness for that. And how is he? I did not intend this.”

“He suffered a knock to the head. With a few days rest he will be well again. There is no need to concern yourself – he is in good hands.”

There was a soft chuckle from the chair on the opposite side of the empty hearth. “Oh, yes, those of Miss Maitland. I had heard of that. The sly old dog.”

“With respect, sir, we are straying from the matter at hand. We now know the location of the room.”

“We have only our informant’s word that Horatio has left the book in his room. Where is it?”

“On the first floor, to the left of the staircase. Mr Bush’s room is opposite.”

“At the back of the house, then. That will make things a little easier. The Maitlands will be at a card party this evening, as guests of the marquis, so we need not expect them to return until late.” A pair of sharp eyes fixed Wakefield from the gloom of the corner. “We are close to achieving our objective, doctor.”

***

“This is nice. Improper, but pleasant.”

Anna wound a stray lock of Bush’s hair around her finger, teasing the strands gently. “I have already told you – you may hang propriety from the nearest yardarm. I have no use for it.” The house was quiet, everyone out for the evening. Anna had pleaded the headache, and now lay curled up on the bed at Bush’s side, his head resting on her shoulder.

“How is your head?” he asked, one brow arching slightly, a mischievous smile lurking at the corner of his mouth.

“It was only a half untruth – the headache has indeed kept me here. How is yours?”

He groaned. “It feels as though someone fired an eighteen-pounder inside it.”

Anna rested her cheek against the top of his head. “You poor thing. Battered once again.”

“It must be the company I keep.”

“Battered but unbowed.”

“As always. I take it that I am forgiven,” Bush said quietly after a pause.

“I have not yet decided.” She deliberately kept her tone light. There was time enough for him to discover that Hornblower had told her all.

“But you are here.”

“It would appear so.”

There was a companionable silence between them for some minutes. Anna stroked the dark curls that lay against her neck, her fingers moving rhythmically, almost unconsciously back and forth. Bush lay quietly - her touch seemed to soothe him, some of the strain and discomfort leaving his face. The only sounds in the room were the ticking of the clock and the regular sigh of their breath.

“Why did you not tell me about Renown?” she asked softly.

It was a long time before he answered. At last he said, “It was hardly something I wished to discuss.”

“You were cleared of all charges. It has done no harm to your career - ”

There was a harsh laugh, cutting her off. “No. I have been fortunate.”

Another pause. Anna could feel the lines of tension in Bush’s shoulders and back all of a sudden. There would never have been a good time to broach the subject, she realised – though she was loath to hurt him by reopening old wounds, she had to know the truth. Secrets and lies…they were good for no one. Nevertheless, her next question was a little more cautious. “The man you thought you saw in the park…it was Kennedy, was it not?”

Bush sighed heavily. “I was mistaken.”

“Do you often think of him?”

“He has been in my thoughts of late, though I am not sure why that should be. Over two years he has been cold in the ground in Kingston, without even a stone to mark his grave.”

“You were good friends, I take it.”

He smiled sadly. “He was Horatio’s friend, the two of them thick as thieves. They knew each other so well that one could finish the other’s sentences. I was never more surprised than when they widened their circle to include me. My lasting regret is that I did not come to properly value his friendship until he was dying next to me in that damned prison hospital.”

“What was he like?”

“Reckless. Impetuous. I found his sense of humour somewhat…inappropriate at first. But he was a brave man – I can think of few who would be willing to jump off a cliff with one man who is afraid of heights and another who cannot swim. And then later…I have never in my life known such courage.” He shook his head slightly, as though trying to banish these uncomfortable memories. It was clearly difficult for him - the words seemed to pull themselves from his throat with a great effort. She wondered whether he had ever spoken of this to anyone before. “He should never have died, Anna. One so young, cut down like that…If I had been quicker, if I had realised Ortega’s intention…”

“Will, did he not die from his wounds? That could not have been your fault – there was nothing you could have done,” Anna told him gently. “Surely better that way than to face the noose. Some would call it a mercy.”

He lifted his head a little, so that he could look at her – as his eyes met hers she was almost overwhelmed by the wealth of pain within them. “There was everything,” he said earnestly, grasping her hand. “If I had reacted a moment sooner, killed Ortega before he could fire, Archie Kennedy would never have needed to sacrifice himself in Kingston. He would still be alive today.”

TBC


	12. Chapter Eleven

Anna stared at Bush in consternation. “Will, I don’t understand – how could you - ”

“The Spanish colonel – he was aiming at Horatio,” he said desperately, as though now that he had begun he had to put everything into words, “I had to do something. There was a pistol on the deck – somehow I managed to reach it. It was still loaded. But I was too late – I hit Ortega, but he had already pulled the trigger. The shot went wide. Kennedy was in the way - he took the bullet in his lung.”

“But were you not wounded yourself? How could you possibly have done more?”

“I should have been quicker, thought quicker. Horatio would have snatched up that gun without a second’s hesitation, wound or no wound. My mind does not possess that speed, it never has done.” Bush shook his head. “If only it had.”

“Will.” Anna took hold of his chin, turned his face to hers, forcing him to look at her. She hated to see such distress in his eyes. “You did all that you could. Would dying yourself have helped matters? It was by chance that Kennedy was shot, nothing more. You are not to blame!”

“I let him down, wavered too long.”

“This battle – is that how you got those scars?” she asked, suddenly remembering the savage white lines that criss-crossed his chest.

He nodded. “One of the Dons caught me off-guard. When it was all over Styles found me amongst the dead. I was halfway there myself.”

“My God…tell me how, with such a wound, could you conceivably have saved Kennedy?” It was all she could do to stop herself from trying to shake some sense into him. “You are taking too much upon yourself!”

Bush passed a hand over his eyes, breathing deeply. His voice caught as he said, so quietly that Anna had to strain to hear it, “I lay beside him in that stinking, godforsaken hothouse of a prison. I lay there, recovering from injuries that were trivial in comparison, for days on end, listening to him coughing, to him struggling just to take one breath that wasn’t agony. I lay there, and I…I watched him die.”

“Oh, Will…” She held him, his head pressed to her shoulder, feeling him shudder in hers arms as he tried to get a hold of himself. How had he been carrying this guilt alone for so long? “Does Horatio know any of this?”

He swallowed, and when he next spoke he successfully managed to keep the tremor at bay. “We have never spoken of it. Horatio will not even mention Archie’s name – the wound is still too raw. He throws himself into his duty; that is how he copes. The ship is all that matters to him. A few months ago he berated me for not shooting dead a man who threatened him – had I done so it would have saved so much bloodshed, but when it came to the moment I could not do it. My finger froze on the trigger. The bastard was holding a gun on him – if I had been too slow, or if I had missed…” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I couldn’t let it happen again.”

“What did he say?”

“I couldn’t tell him. He was angry, and rightly so – I failed to carry out a direct order. How could I explain? I doubt if he would understand.” His voice finally cracked, and she rocked him in her arms, wishing that she could take the pain away.

“Shhh, it’s all right.” She brushed her lips across his temple, pressing her cheek to his. Images of the past, flames and blood, screams and smoke, blossomed in her mind’s eye. “It’s all right,” she whispered, “I understand.”

***

The continual ticking of the clock on the mantelshelf was setting Hornblower’s nerves on edge.

He glanced up – only ten minutes had passed since he had last looked. Midnight inched closer with interminable slowness. He could not relax, not until the book was out of his hands. He had sent Matthews to the Admiralty with a note, outlining his intention to call the following day to see Captain Foster. The reply had been terse, one line hastily scribbled: One o’clock, side entrance. You will be met. The handwriting matched that of the missive he had received two days before.

Had he been alone he would have paced the room, try to expend some of the nervous energy that bubbled within him. He was forced to remain in his chair with a copy of the Times, however, as Salomé occupied a seat in the corner, her head bent over her embroidery. Her presence made him uncomfortable – try as he might, he could not accustom himself to finding her about the house, often in those places he least expected. She roamed the corridors like a lost soul, her dark eyes ever alert – he very much doubted whether there was anything in the house that escaped her attention. Perhaps she was the one responsible for Anna’s sudden discovery of Bush’s watch, he mused.

Hornblower shook his head. He had not liked having to reveal his orders to Anna. Though he did not believe her to be untrustworthy, revealing confidential information to civilians went utterly against his inclination. His only defence was that she had given him little choice – she had already known enough.

“Will we never be free of that man?” she exclaimed, upon hearing Lambert’s name.

“You must understand why I desired to keep this a secret,” he said, “If the codebook contains the information we suspect, it could be devastating.”

Anna shook her head. “Did it not occur to you that I might be of some assistance to you? I knew Lambert for nearly a decade; he was always in our house. He even made a few half-hearted attempts to court me, some years ago.”

“I was not aware of this. Why did you not tell me?”

“It is hardly something I am proud of, Mr Hornblower. I have not even told William. And as you refused to take me into your confidence…” She met his gaze with a steady one of her own, her head held high. At that moment, Hornblower saw what Bush had done when they arrived, the proud, assured breeding of a woman born to a greater destiny. It was a side that revealed itself only occasionally, but it was most definitely there. “But despite that, I can help you, I think.”

“I will be grateful for anything you can tell me, Miss Maitland,” he told her.

Anna sat down on the bed, settling her skirts. She kept him waiting for some time, appeared to be enjoying turning the tables, leaving him in the dark for once. Eventually she said, “There was a man, a frequent visitor to Doctor Lambert’s house. At the time it did not seem suspicious, but with hindsight I have come to realise that he always came when the smugglers were in the area. I only saw him once or twice – someone said that he was an old university friend of the doctor’s but he seemed to me to be considerably younger.”

Hornblower tried to hold down the annoyance he felt at only having been apprised of this now. He had only himself to blame. Had he allowed Bush to tell Anna the truth earlier…so much time wasted. “Did you discover his name?”

“His name was Devereaux, Francis Devereaux. Yes, Mr Hornblower,” Anna said in answer to his look of surprise, “he was an Englishman.”

***

The clock at the end of the landing struck midnight.

Bush stirred, the chimes rousing him from an uneasy sleep. He raised his head – slumber had dulled the pain a little, thankfully. The room was pitch dark, but he became aware of a presence at his side, the tickle of another’s breath on his neck. He realised that he was lying in Anna’s arms, her head on his chest. She was sleeping soundly, her breathing deep and even.

Speaking of Renown after so long had somehow drained him. He had kept it locked away, resolved never to mention it again unless it were to Hornblower, and he knew in his heart of hearts that Horatio would never wish to drag up the past. It would hurt too much. And hurt it had, more than he had thought possible – the guilt, the desperation had not been diminished by the passing of time, merely been denied, kept at bay.

But despite the pain, his heart now felt a fraction lighter. He was no longer carrying the burden alone. Gently he stroked Anna’s hair, and she moved a little closer to him, curling her body against his as though it were the most natural thing in the world. They had fallen asleep together, innocent as two children, but to have her beside him felt so right…whatever their differences, no matter the difficulties, at that moment he could not envision ever being without her.

Sleep was dragging him under once more. Anna gave a contented sigh as he wrapped his arms around her, and he sank again into comfortable oblivion.

***

The chiming of the clock jolted Hornblower awake.

He realised that he must have dozed off in the armchair – his neck protested in the strongest possible terms as he tried to straighten it. As he rubbed at his sticky eyes, he became aware that he was alone in the room. The candles had burned low in their sockets and there was no sign of Salomé. Glancing at the clock he saw that the hands pointed to midnight – she must have already gone up to bed. It would be sensible for him to do the same. He could do nothing more tonight.

It irked him that he would have to go to the Admiralty without the benefit of Bush’s support – whatever Bush’s personal feelings on the matter, he was Hornblower’s first officer and the most reliable man he knew. He could be counted upon to back up his captain’s decisions should it prove necessary. For him to have sustained such an easily avoidable injury was the most damnable luck. Hornblower had not even been aware that Bush could ride – distrustful of horses himself, he kept out of their way whenever possible, only submitting to being mounted when he had absolutely no choice in the matter. He could still recall Archie and Edrington teasing his attempts to master even a particularly docile horse, their amusement at his complete lack of any skill or agility in the saddle.

Archie…

Sighing sharply, he rubbed at his eyes again. Why was he thinking of Archie now, after so long? Two years had passed, two years in which his life had changed almost beyond recognition. He had told himself more than once that in order to continue with some semblance of sanity he would have to put the terrible events in Kingston behind him, however difficult that might be. He had closed the door on them, and turned the key.

He supposed that he could have talked about it with Bush, but his pride would not allow him to do so. Bush was a friend, now the closest friend that Horatio had, but despite that bond there was the intangible but definite barrier of rank between them. As captain he could not, would not allow Bush to see him vulnerable. To know again such friendship as he and Archie had shared was not possible, and he was not even sure that he would have wished for it – his position had changed, and some distance had to be maintained. And William, reticent to the core, would never have broached the subject himself.

Hornblower pulled himself out of the chair. It was fruitless to dwell upon things that could not be changed. No one, with the best will in the world, could turn back time.

He found a candle on the mantle and lit it from one of the few guttering flames still burning in the room. It did not take long to snuff the handful that remained. Trying not to yawn, he went to the door and turned the handle. To his surprise, it would not move. His mind still fuddled by sleep, he rattled the handle, assuming that it must merely be stuck and would right itself with a little persuasion. After a minute or two without success, he realised that someone had locked the door from the outside.

Clarity returning, he was quite suddenly wide-awake. He crouched down, putting his eye to the keyhole – the key had been removed. Hornblower looked around the darkened room, eyes searching for a way out.

It was then that he heard footsteps in the passage outside.

***

Anna wasn’t sure what had woken her.

She lay there in the darkness for some time, listening intently, but could hear nothing more than the steady ticking of the grandfather clock on the landing and the regular sigh of Bush’s breathing. Lifting her head, she smiled fondly as a shaft of moonlight spilling through the open curtains fell across his face. He looked peaceful, almost childlike, in repose, the lines of age and care smoothed away.

It was late, and she knew that she would have to leave him. While being discovered in his room, innocent as the circumstances were, would not bother her she knew that such behaviour would concern her parents. Reluctantly she drew herself away, slipping gently from his arms. He was so deeply asleep that the movement did not rouse him. Gathering up her shoes, she tiptoed across to the door.

The landing was clear as she poked her head outside, no one to be seen. Quietly closing the door behind her, she crept lightly down the hall to her own room.

She was just turning the handle when the sudden sound of a voice behind her made her freeze.

***

There had to be another door.

Candle held high, Hornblower made a circuit of the drawing room, ears alert to any sound. There was a creak of a floorboard – they were above him, then. It was quite evident that he was not to be allowed to deliver the codebook to the Admiralty. He should have expected such an occurrence – the spy in the house must have seen him give the note to Matthews. Silently cursing himself for having been such a fool, he caught his foot on a chair leg and almost went sprawling head first on the carpet. He threw out a hand to catch himself, and barked his knuckles on something heavy and metallic.

In the flickering light from the candle, he realised that he had found a door, one he had not even noticed before. The handle turned easily – whoever had locked him in had either not known of this door’s existence or had not supposed him to be aware of it. He ducked through into the next room, revealed by the moonlight that struggled through the grimy windows to be the library. Stepping softly, he made short work of the distance to the main door, cautiously trying it.

The door opened, the hinges protesting with a creak that seemed loud enough in the silent house to wake the dead. Hornblower stood stock still, listening intently. He could still hear movement above him, but it did not appear to be coming in his direction. It soon would be when the book’s absence was discovered, however, and he had no intention of waiting here for whoever it was that had broken into the house in search of it.

There was a heavy bronze statuette on the table by the door – he hefted it in his hand. It was clumsy, but even a clumsy weapon was better than no weapon at all. Taking a better grip on the statue, he crept towards the stairs.

***

Anna listened carefully, her ears straining to make out the words.

The voices were low, whispers, but she realised that they were speaking in French. “Have you taken care of everything?”

“Hornblower will not be bothering us tonight. As for the others…a wounded man and a mere girl can be no trouble.”

“Even so, I would feel safer if - ” There was a pause, movement at the head of the stairs. Anna pressed herself into the shadows of her doorway, barely daring to breathe lest the sound should give her away. “Is this his room?”

They were outside William’s bedroom. She heard the dull click of a key turning in the lock.

“A wounded lion is a dangerous foe. Better to keep the beast caged, I think.”

Footsteps…they were coming closer. Anna reached for the door handle behind her. It turned, and beneath her weight the door abruptly swung open – she all but fell into the room beyond, stifling the cry of surprise that welled in her throat just in time. She could hear them trying doors down the landing, checking no doubt, looking for her. Stumbling, her stockinged feet catching in the hem of her dress, she ran to the cabinet beside her bed, her fingers immediately finding what she sought in the drawer, despite the darkness.

The pistol was loaded – a dangerous precaution, but one that she had taken every night for the last ten years. She lifted it out, weighing it in her hand, and carefully pulled back the hammer. It clicked reassuringly into place…

A hand fell on her shoulder. Unable this time to stop her instinctive cry of alarm, she turned, and found herself staring up into an indistinct mask of a face, a face with hard eyes and an unpleasant smile.

“Well, well, well,” the voice from the landing said, glancing down at the pistol she held pressed between them, “What do we have here?”

***

Outside, a shadow moved across the face of the building.

A figure clung to the stucco, finding hand and footholds in the mouldings, slowly making its way towards the only open window on the first floor.

When it reached the safety of the ledge, it carefully heaved itself inside.

***

The breeze gusted into the room, blowing the curtains inwards.

Bush, uncomfortable in the stuffy air, had asked Anna to pull back the curtains and push up the sash. Having spent most of his life in the open, he had never subscribed to the ridiculous notion that night air was in some way harmful. Now, however, he felt the cool breeze on his skin and shivered slightly, the touch enough to wake him.

Even before he opened his eyes he knew that he was alone. The bed beside him was still warm – Anna could not have been gone long. He sighed, an unfamiliar feeling washing over him. No stranger to women, he had know many a bit of muslin for a night or two, but he had never before considered the prospect of having someone to wake up to, the feeling of holding another, and of being held, through a long cold night. Now that Anna was gone, he felt strangely…bereft? Was that the word?

He sat up slightly, as another chill blast of air blew into the room. The window was more than half open, the curtains twisting. Moonlight fell in a square patch on the floor. Bush rubbed at his arms, feeling gooseflesh beneath his shirt. He would get no more sleep tonight unless he shut the window. As he started to push back the coverlet, swinging himself out of bed, he realised with a jolt that there was someone else in the room.

Something had moved, just out of the light.

Bush squinted, trying to make out the shape. It was distorted, the shadow thrown onto the floor stretched all out of proportion. His feet found the boards, and he stood unsteadily, catching hold of the bedpost for support. “Anna?” he whispered, hoping that she had returned.

He discovered a moment later that, whoever his nocturnal visitor was, they were not friendly. The room spun wildly around him, he was suddenly falling backwards as a weight slammed into him, and the next moment he found himself flat on his back on the bed, one rough hand clamped over his mouth, the other pushing him down onto the mattress with surprising strength. Bush struggled, trying to free himself, cursing furiously, but to no avail. Damn this weakness! The intruder must have moved like lightning. His head was whirling; he could feel a pounding behind his eyes that threatened to eclipse everything.

“For God’s sake, William!” the figure hissed, startling him. “Have you not had enough knocks to the head for one day?”

Bush froze. He was going mad. The fall had somehow addled his brain, that was the only explanation. Too much introspection had turned his mind, it must have done, for if it had not, then the voice he had just heard must be real, and that was utterly impossible. He tried to speak, but his voice was muffled by that firm hold over his mouth.

The figure glanced over its shoulder. “If I let you go, do you promise not to give me away?” it asked urgently.

Bush nodded, praying that his mind were indeed playing tricks on him. He was not sure what he would do if it were not. There was a brief pause, and then the hold on him was slowly withdrawn. He pulled himself up, catching his assailant by the sleeve before they could move away.

“Hold hard!” he ordered, remembering in time to pitch his voice low, “Let me look at you.”

There was a soft chuckle from the intruder. “Still taking charge. It is reassuring to know that some things don’t change.”

“I - ” Bush’s words died in his throat as he pulled the figure into the light. Never a particularly religious or superstitious man, he was suddenly overwhelmed by an irrational desire to cross himself, a deep, gut reaction, desperately wanting to protect himself. He had never believed in ghosts, dismissing such fancies as ridiculous, fantasies, but now he believed in them, he knew the stories to be true, because there was a dead man standing before him, a dead man buried half a world away in the dry Jamaican dust. “Dear God…” he breathed, “Dear God, it can’t be - ”

The dead man smiled at him, and pulled a pistol from his belt.

“Hello, Mr Bush,” said Archie Kennedy pleasantly, levelling the gun, “It’s been a long time.”

TBC


	13. Chapter Twelve

Bush ignored the pistol, staring in disbelief at the apparition before him.

“You were dead,” Bush whispered, “They told us you were dead.” When he had last seen him, Kennedy had been as close to death as made no difference. He had known what Hornblower was planning, and, despite his wounds, despite the great pain it would cause him, he had been determined to walk into the courtroom and stop Horatio from taking the blame. Bush tried to change his mind, to reason with him, but Kennedy was adamant, intent on performing this gesture, the last thing he could do for his friend. And so Bush had helped him, admiring the younger man’s loyalty and courage, and wondering, deep in his heart, whether he would ever have had the strength to do the same.

That last night was a long one, for them both. At the end of it, Bush felt that he had aged at least a decade. When the time finally came for Doctor Clive to take Kennedy away, when Bush watched his friend leave the hot, stuffy cell they had both shared, saying goodbye was the hardest thing he had ever had to do. Left alone, he had broken down and wept for the first time in years. When the marine guard came to the door, informing him that he was to be transferred to the naval hospital, he knew that Kennedy had done it, that he had saved them all. He had never seen his friend again.

And now Kennedy stood in front of him, large as life. Bush had no idea how that made him feel. To suddenly realise that all the recriminations, the guilt he had been carrying locked away in his heart for the last two years meant nothing…anger rose to the surface.

“I stood by your grave, damn it!” he exclaimed. “I mourned you! How could you do this? How could you do it to Horatio?”

“That is not important now!” Kennedy hissed, glancing over his shoulder.

“Were you ever going to tell us?” Bush demanded. “We have - ” He stopped speaking abruptly as Kennedy’s finger tightened on the trigger of the pistol, his eyes hard.

“Raise your voice again, William, and, friend or no, I will shoot you where you stand,” he said seriously. “No one must know that I am here, especially not Horatio. Too much is at stake.” In the moonlight Bush could see the lines of premature age on the angelic face, the features tired and more careworn than he remembered. Wherever it was that Kennedy had been these last years, it had left its mark.

“The Archie Kennedy I remember railed against injustice,” Bush said quietly, ignoring the gun. “He would not shoot an unarmed man.”

“Archie Kennedy is dead. He died in Jamaica.”

“Then it is indeed a ghost I see before me.”

“Make of it what you will. I would not have revealed myself to you tonight unless it was absolutely necessary.”

Bush arched an eyebrow. “Then this intrusion is not a social call? What is the gun for, Archie?”

Kennedy shrugged. “Coercion? Persuasion? Possibly protection. I need to know where the book is.”

“The book?” Bush blinked. “What interest do you have in the book?”

“That is of no matter. Where is it?”

“That is a question you should be asking of Horatio. I do not have it.”

“Please, William, don’t be stubborn over this. It is vitally important that I have the book. Tell me where it is. I swear to you, I will fire this thing.” The gun was still pointing at Bush’s chest – Kennedy’s face was set in determination.

Bush regarded the pistol dispassionately. “I don’t think you will.”

For a brief second, there was doubt in Kennedy’s expressive features. “Why should you? I have shot men before.”

“You could simply have knocked me unconscious earlier and found the book for yourself,” Bush pointed out. “The fact that you did not tells me that you would rather keep me alive and able to talk – dead men tell no tales, Mr Kennedy.”

Kennedy looked at him, and the gun wavered a little in his hand.

Bush just met the clear blue gaze with a steady one of his own. “Put the gun down, Archie,” he said calmly, fervently hoping that he was not mistaken in his assumptions. Surely Kennedy could not have changed so much, enough to shoot down a friend in cold blood?

There was stalemate between them for several seconds, neither so much as daring to blink, until finally Kennedy was forced to look away. The gun dropped to his side. “Damn. I had forgotten that you are almost as insufferably logical as Horatio.”

“There is much to be said for logic.” Bush sat down on the bed, folding his arms and trying not to wince as his shoulder twinged. “Now – if you want me to help you, you are going to have to tell me what is going on.”

***

Anna stared up into the face of a man she hoped she would never have to see again.

“Let me go!” she cried, trying to twist free of his grip.

His fingers stroked her hair – she shuddered, her flesh, her whole body crawling. “I do not think so. Such a surprise, to see you once more. It has been a long time, chérie. I see that you are as beautiful as ever.” Those eyes raked her up and down, their gaze as lascivious as she remembered. She had tried so hard to forget…

She pulled her head away, pushing at his chest with her free hand, trying desperately to force some distance between them. “I hoped you were dead!”

“You should know that I cannot die, chérie. I have walked through fire, through bullets. Many have tried, and failed. They cannot kill me.” Du Vallon leaned over her, his breath brushing her neck as he whispered, “But you may try. Perhaps you will be the one to succeed. You did it once before, did you not? You are an excellent shot – your father taught you well.”

The cruel smile that twisted his face struck a pain into her gut. She gripped the gun tightly, desperately. At such close range, pulling the trigger would surely kill them both. The flames and screams burst from hiding once more, clouding her mind - smoke enveloped her, cries assaulted her ears, memories she had tried to banish…when she had had to kill a man…

A moan of despair tore itself from her throat. Oh, dear God, William, help me… The voice was soft in her ear, compelling. “Shoot me, ma petite; shoot me as you did him.”

***

“The codebook details all of Lambert’s connections, those making monetary contributions, promises of weapons and troops, etcetera. Half the aristocracy have French ancestry at one point or another, and if they are promised enough gold and glory they will sign to anything,” Kennedy said. “Many would be quite willing to call themselves ‘citizen’ if it meant lands and wealth in France. Never mind the fact that Napoleon is claiming it all for himself - the lure is there, and it is enough.”

Bush shook his head, and immediately wished he hadn’t. “I cannot believe that there are so many disloyal Englishmen.”

“That is because you are a decent upstanding man, William, one who does his duty without a second thought. Even if you were without two farthings to rub together, the thought of turning to dishonesty to feed your family would never even enter into your head, would it?”

Bush thought back to his days on half pay, when there had been barely enough money to keep himself, let alone his sisters as well. Money had been as tight as he could recall, and yet they had managed. “No,” he said, “It would not.”

Kennedy smiled slightly. “If only all men were as honest as you.”

“Then the book is as potentially explosive as Pellew thinks. Small wonder he wished us to keep it hidden.”

“The codebook is not dangerous alone. Without the correct key, it is useless. With the key…” Kennedy trailed off, grimacing. “Bonaparte would have half the British government in his hands.”

Bush frowned. “Surely then it is sensible to keep the book and the key as far apart as possible.”

“The intention is to translate the book, and for that the key is needed. I must have both.”

“Why should you need them?” Bush asked, suddenly suspicious. “The Admiralty - ”

Kennedy sighed impatiently. “The Admiralty has been compromised. Someone else knows of the book’s location. It is of paramount importance that I remove it from this house immediately. William, I am asking you as a friend – please tell me where the book is.”

Bush narrowed his eyes. Two and two were adding up rather unpleasantly in the back of his mind. “Why should you have such an interest in the book, Archie? What is it to you?”

For a long moment, Kennedy was silent. Even in the relative darkness of the room, Bush could tell that the other man was unable to meet his gaze.

“My interest in the book is a simple one, Mr Bush,” he said eventually, “I wrote it.”

***

There were two men at the top of the stairs.

Hornblower crouched in the shadows, watching them. One had gone into his room some moments before – when he returned, the two of them had begun muttering together, their voices too low for him to make out any of their words. Their intention was clear, however – the man who had emerged from the bedroom was pointing, gesticulating down the landing, but his companion shook his head. It seemed that his double bluff had worked. The spy within the house had obviously found the book in the base of the chair – though the job had been expertly done, he had know upon entering his room earlier that it had been searched, probably while he had been pointlessly chasing after the mysterious Frenchman. It had been a simple matter to switch the books once more and wait for someone to attempt to remove the ‘codebook’ from its hiding place. He only wished that he had had the forethought to stow a weapon of some kind about the house – without Bush’s assistance, armed only with a cumbersome club, there would be little he could do to apprehend the intruders.

The first man turned away from his friend, striding down the landing to a door that stood ajar. He knocked tentatively on the panels, calling softly, “Colonel? Colonel, nous avons un problème…”

***

Anna eyed Du Vallon with more loathing than she had ever felt for another human being. The sight of him revolted her, the smell, the touch of his body pressed close to hers…“You deserve to die.”

“I do not think you can do it, petite,” Du Vallon whispered. “You do not have the stomach for it.”

“I wish I had killed you while I had the chance,” she hissed.

“I do not believe you will wish to break your lover’s heart by killing yourself. How would your Monsieur Bush feel if he knew that you had blown us both to Kingdom Come? What would he think?” He looked at her and smirked repulsively. “He is a suspicious man, your lieutenant.”

“He would be pleased that I had taken a Godforsaken bastard like you with me!”

He shook his head. “Come now, chérie, that is no way to speak to an old friend.”

“A friend? You murdered my uncle, razed our home to the ground, destroyed my family!” Anna cried, struggling to free herself. The pistol was cocked, the hammer pressing hard into her chest. One shot…one shot and she would be free of him, free of the man who had haunted her nightmares for the last ten years. She had to do it; she had had the chance to kill him once before and had not taken it. There would not be another. But William…Oh, William…how could she do such a thing to him? How could she leave him like that? The idea of ever being parted from him was more than she could bear.

“Aristocratic scum who deserved everything they suffered.” Du Vallon ran the tip of his finger down her neck, slowly, deliberately, circling her throat. “But you…you are different. It would have been such a shame to see the blade sever that beautiful neck…”

Anna froze, barely daring to breathe.

“I could do it, you know. You are still an enemy of France. Or would you rather I turned my attentions to your lieutenant? Madame yearns to spill some English blood.”

“You lay a finger on him - ”

“What will you do, petite? Kill me?” He laughed. “I thought that you reserved that honour only for men you loved.”

“I will see you in hell.” Her finger tightened on the trigger.

***

“What?” Bush could barely believe his ears. He was beginning to wish that he had never left Hotspur’s sickbay – at least there his brain had not been continually assaulted by events that stretched his credulity to the limit. “You wrote that codebook?”

Kennedy nodded. “The result of nearly two years’ work. It is impenetrable without the correct key.”

“You devised a code for a French spy? How could you possibly do such a thing?” Bush’s voice was rising in volume again, and he struggled to keep control of it.

“It’s a very long story. Suffice to say that Pellew knows all.”

“The admiral? Good God, how far does this treachery reach?”

“It is not treachery, William. The affair is complicated - ”

“So I can see!” Bush whispered harshly. “What the devil have you become involved in, Archie? Consorting with spies - ”

“It is a necessary evil when one is a spy oneself,” said Kennedy simply. “I have been spying for Pellew ever since I recovered from my wounds in Kingston.”

Bush’s head was spinning. He badly wanted to lie down and sleep once more, in the desperate hope that everything that had happened in the last few minutes would turn out to be a nightmare. “I don’t understand.”

“I promise you, William, I will explain, but we have no time now. Where is the book?” Kennedy asked again.

“Horatio has it. He - ” Bush broke off, listening. “Did you hear that?”

Kennedy frowned. “I can’t hear anything.”

“It came from the next room.” Bush got up, padding over to the fireplace. The flue was connected to that of the bedroom next door – he had heard Hornblower pacing the floor at night. He crouched before the grate, straining his ears for any sound.

Kennedy joined him. “Anything?”

“There is someone in there,” Bush told him softly. “I suppose it could be Horatio.”

“No, my…er…confederate promised to keep Horatio out of the way.” Kennedy listened – the sound of someone dragging furniture across the floorboards could clearly be heard. He swore, a rather foul epithet that surprised Bush.

“I hope you didn’t pick that up from me,” he remarked.

Kennedy ignored him. “What weapons do you have?”

“My sword, and two pistols. Why?”

“Get them.” Kennedy was on the alert all of a sudden, pacing over to the door, his pistol back in his hand. Bush watched him from the corner of his eye as he found and began to load his own guns – even in such poor light he could see Kennedy deliberately draw back the hammer, taking a firmer grip on the weapon.

“Are you expecting trouble?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“Let’s just say that I am not the only person who needs that book. Damn it – we could use Horatio’s support,” Kennedy muttered. He glanced back at Bush. “All ready?”

Bush nodded though he privately doubted whether he would be able to shoot straight the way the room still spun dizzily around him. “Whom are you expecting?” he whispered.

There was a pause. When Kennedy spoke his voice was hard and clipped. “A French bastard called Francois du Vallon.”

***

“Colonel? Colonel, we have a problem.”

The knock at the door made Anna jump. Du Vallon made swift use of her brief lapse in concentration, grabbing her wrist and twisting it viciously until she cried out in pain and dropped the pistol. It fell to the floor, its impact on the floorboards jarring the hammer – with a blinding flash and a report loud enough to wake the dead it went off, startling them both. Anna wrenched herself out of du Vallon’s hands, whirling away in her desperation to get as far from him as possible. Her stockinged feet slipped on the bare boards and she almost fell – a sudden grasp on her upper arm pulled her up short, the iron grip on her flesh making her gasp.

“You cannot get away so easily, ma chérie,” he whispered, dragging her upright. “I have not done with you yet.” Pulling her across the room, he flung open the door to reveal a stocky man with a face that was more scars than features. In the darkness it loomed like some hideous carnival mask – Anna choked back the squeal of shock that leapt into her throat. “What is it?” du Vallon demanded. “What has gone wrong?”

“Colonel, the book…it is not there!” the man stammered. “We have searched - ”

“Imbecile!” du Vallon snarled. “Must I do everything myself? Hornblower is no fool – he will have hidden it! Search again!”

***

“Who the hell is this du Vallon?” Bush demanded.

“He persecuted the Saint Clair family during the Revolution. The marquis may be fairly easy going, but his son was not. Du Vallon felt himself slighted by the comte, and determined to bring the family down. He’s deadly, fanatical about the destruction of the aristocracy, and the Saint Clairs in particular.”

“My God. I thought him an arrogant bastard, but never - ”

Kennedy looked up sharply. “You’ve met him?”

“He was here, earlier, demanding to see the marquis.” Bush felt his blood run cold. “Christ. I let him into the house.”

“You weren’t to know. He - ” Kennedy broke off, startled, as suddenly from somewhere outside came the unmistakable sound of a pistol being fired. “It’s worse than I thought.”

The two men looked at each other. Bush was not used to fear, not like this, the fear that was gripping him now, twisting his guts. “Archie,” he said urgently, “Anna is out there.”

TBC


	14. Chapter Thirteen

Hornblower heard the shot too.

He was at a loss to know what to do. Alone and without proper weapons he had little chance against the intruders, but there were two women and a wounded man he had to protect. Anna and Salomé must have been woken by the noise. Where were they?

The door down the landing suddenly flew open, and a tall figure burst out, shoving the hapless Frenchman aside. Moonlight spilling through the high windows of the hall revealed the second figure dragged along behind the first – Anna was struggling desperately, but to no avail.

“Laissé allez de moi!” she shouted, “Vous ne partirez pas avec ceci! Ils vous attraperont et ils vous accrocheront!”

She kicked out at her captor’s legs, evidently hoping to reach some vital spot – as Hornblower watched, the man turned and backhanded her hard across the face. A strangled cry broke from her, and she sagged in his grip.

Slowly, with her free hand, Anna wiped the blood that trickled from the corner of her mouth. When she turned her head, there was more hatred in her eyes than Hornblower had ever thought it possible to see. “Diable!” she hissed. “Vous brûlerez dans l'enfer pour ce que vous.”

The tall man just laughed. His companions had vanished back into Hornblower’s room – he could hear them shifting furniture once more, chair legs scraping across the floor, drawers and cupboard doors banging. It seemed that now they did not care whom they woke, intent on their objective.

He glanced across the landing – there was no way that he could get to Bush’s room without being seen. The tall Frenchman stood alone but for Anna, barely ten feet away. Hornblower weighed the statuette in his hand once more. If he timed it right, perhaps he could take out the leader. It was not much of a plan, but it was something.

He was about to move when he felt the cool touch of steel against his neck.

***

“We have to get out there!”

Kennedy was rattling the door handle, but the door remained stubbornly shut. “Blasted thing’s stuck!”

“It can’t be.” Bush tried the handle himself – it turned, but the door refused to move. He crouched, peering through the keyhole. “It’s locked. Someone has taken the key.”

“Why on earth would they do that?”

Desperation was somehow making Bush’s mind work faster. “To keep me out of the way, I assume. Didn’t you say your accomplice had done the same to Horatio?”

“Well, yes, but there was no need for them to…” Kennedy looked at him, evidently guessing the way that his thoughts were heading, and shook his head. “William, my associate would not help du Vallon. She has - ”

“She?”

For a tense moment Kennedy considered. He must have decided that the time for secrecy was over, as he said, “Salomé de Saint Clair. She would not help him, William – du Vallon is the man who arrested her father!”

“The man who - ” Bush turned, renewing the assault on the door. “Dear God, Archie, why did you not tell me before?” Anna was out there - he had to get to her before the unthinkable happened, before…his mind shied away from the possibilities, too horrible to contemplate. He threw himself at the wood, barely noticing the pain in his shoulder as it connected with the door. “Damn it, Kennedy, help me!”

Kennedy did, putting his own shoulder to the panels, but even with their combined strength the door would not move. “We’ll never do it this way – the wood’s too strong!”

Shouting could be heard now, out on the landing - a woman, speaking rapidly in French, her tone full of venom. A man’s laughter followed, even as she spat the words at him. Bush might not have understood, but the sentiment was clear enough.

He hammered on the door. “Anna!”

“William?” Her voice was desperate, but hopeful. “William, I - ” There was the sound of a sharp slap, and the rest was lost in a cry of pain.

“Du Vallon!!” Bush roared, “Harm her and I’ll - ”

“You will do what, Monsieur Bush?” enquired another voice, lazy, mocking, but with a dangerous edge to it. “It would seem to me that I have the advantage. Tell me what you can do to stop me from behind a locked door – I would be interested to know.”

Bush turned to Kennedy. “I don’t care how you do it, but get me out of here.”

***

“Do not move, monsieur, or I will cut your throat, yes?” The voice was guttural, the French accent slurring the words so that they were barely intelligible. The blade pressing into Hornblower’s jugular was enough, however, to make the meaning as clear as crystal. “Stand up and walk forwards.”

Hornblower did so, leaving the statuette on the stairs. As he reached the landing, a thunderous pounding started up on Bush’s bedroom door – a moment later his voice could be heard, muffled by the wood.

“Anna!”

The relief on Anna’s face was palpable. “William! William, I - ” She broke off with a cry as the tall Frenchman smacked her across the face once more.

“Du Vallon!” Bush bellowed, beating furiously on the door. “Harm her and I’ll - ” Hornblower had no idea how William knew the Frenchman’s name, but it seemed he must, as the man laughed.

“You will do what, Monsieur Bush?” he drawled. “It would seem to me that I have the advantage. Tell me what you can do to stop me from behind a locked door – I would be interested to know.”

There was a pause. “She’s no use to you, du Vallon,” Bush said at last, his voice at normal volume. “She doesn’t know where the book is. Let her go, and I will show you its hiding place.”

There was an exclamation of surprise from behind the door, hastily stifled. Hornblower frowned – who the devil was in there with Bush?

Du Vallon appeared to be considering the offer. He glanced in Hornblower’s direction for the first time and smiled, a flat, predatory expression that reminded Horatio of the reptiles he had seen in the West Indies. “It is tempting, Monsieur Bush, but you see, I have an ace up my sleeve. Perhaps you should learn cards – it is a most useful skill. Why should I bother with a mere jack when I have the king before me?”

***

“What the hell does he mean?” Bush demanded.

Kennedy was looking grim. “It can be only one thing – he has Horatio.”

***

The door handle of Bush’s room rattled once more. Hornblower could imagine the sheer frustration his friend must be feeling, unable to do anything but listen impotently to du Vallon’s taunts.

“Monsieur Bush,” the Frenchman said, and there was suddenly steel in his languid voice, “I would like to make it clear to you that should you take one step across that threshold, I shall shoot Mademoiselle Maitland through the head. Equally, should Capitaine Hornblower refuse to cooperate with me, I shall kill her. I suggest that if you wish her to remain alive you both do exactly as you are told.”

Bush hurled a savage curse at him from behind the door. Hornblower had never heard such naked fury in his voice before – in a man usually so softly spoken unless on the gun deck, it was startling to hear.

“Now, capitaine,” said du Vallon, turning to him, “The book, if you please.”

“There have been several attempts to take the book, monsieur,” Hornblower replied, his mind whirling through every possibility open to him, “All have failed. Why should I hand it over to you?”

Du Vallon pretended to ponder the question. “Let me see. I have the gun, the hostage, and the advantage in numbers. Exactly what do you have, capitan?”

As if to reinforce the point, the man holding the knife to Hornblower’s throat pressed the tip of the blade more firmly against the flesh. He could feel the warm blood trickle down his neck. There was nothing he could do, no way to pull a victory from his hat this time. Alone, unarmed…he looked towards Anna, and despite her valiant attempt to remain calm, there was no disguising the fear in her eyes as du Vallon rested the barrel of his pistol against her forehead.

There was nothing to be done.

Surrender was the only option.

“Beside the bed,” he said, “The book is on the table beside the bed.”

***

Bush swore, hurling the filthiest epithets he could think of at the door.

“There must be another way out of here.” Kennedy looked around the room, as if searching for inspiration. His eye alighted on the fireplace. “Is this connected to the one in Horatio’s room?”

“Yes. I think they share the same chimney.” Bush frowned. “What are you going to do?”

Kennedy had shed his coat and was standing in the empty grate, peering upwards. “Do you have a light?”

Bush found his tinderbox and lit a candle, mentally cursing all the time they were wasting. He passed it to Kennedy, who shone the light up into the chimney.

“There are footholds – I can see where it breaks off to the flue in the next room. It’s tight, but I should be able to squeeze myself through.”

“Let me – I’m smaller than you,” Bush pointed out, wanting to be doing something, anything that would help.

“And you are also wounded – you could never pull yourself through the gap. Wait here.”

“Kennedy - ”

“I’m quite used to this sort of thing, I assure you.”

“This is madness – what happens if you get stuck?” Bush asked incredulously.

“And what happens to Horatio and Miss Maitland while we’re trapped in here? It’s our only option. Learn to take a chance, Mr Bush.” Kennedy handed him back the candle and pulled his scarf over his face. “Give me a leg up.”

There was no alternative, but Bush could not like the scheme. And what was he to do while Kennedy was escaping? He linked his fingers into a stirrup for Kennedy’s foot, grunting with the effort and the renewed pain in his shoulder as he propelled the other man upwards. After some wriggling, and no small amount of dislodged soot that billowed back into the room, Kennedy vanished.

Bush stood before the fireplace, holding the pistols and feeling utterly useless.

***

The Frenchman with the battered face came running out of Hornblower’s room, waving the codebook.

“We have it, Colonel! We have it!” he cried triumphantly.

Du Vallon snatched the book from the hapless man’s hand, examining it with hungry eyes. “You are a clever man, capitaine,” he said.

“I believe they call it ‘hiding in plain sight’, colonel,” Hornblower replied.

***

With a thump and a cloud of soot, Kennedy tumbled into the fireplace.

He had been incredibly fortunate that the flue was a wide one, the chimney large. There had been a couple of panicked moments when he thought that Bush’s prediction had been correct and he had become stuck fast, but some desperate manoeuvring had enabled him to wriggle free. He dropped over the lip of the flue and into the chimney in Horatio’s room.

Cautiously, he climbed to his feet, brushing futilely at the soot clinging to his clothes. The marquis really needed to have his chimneys swept more often, he decided. Around him, the room was empty, but the door stood slightly ajar – he could hear the voices on the landing.

Turning back to the fireplace, he called softly up the chimney. “William? I’m through!” He waited a moment, but there was no reply. Surely Bush must be able to hear him – the sounds of shifting furniture had come loud and clear through the flue. “William?” Still nothing. Where the hell had Bush got to?

***

Bush could not wait any longer.

Normally a patient man, all his calm had deserted him the moment Anna was put in danger. He was damned if was going to allow her to be harmed while Kennedy played chimney sweep. Glancing down at the gun he still held, he hefted it in his hand.

Kennedy’s voice returned to him. “Learn to take a risk, Mr Bush.” He had been forced to take a risk before, dragged off that cliff in Jamaica, and it had saved his life.

After a moment’s deliberation, he strode over to the door.

***

“We are leaving,” du Vallon announced to his men. “We have our prize.”

“Then you may let Miss Maitland go,” Hornblower told him. “You have what you came for.”

“Your definition of the prize is different to mine, capitan,” the Frenchman purred, reaching out to stroke the side of Anna’s face. She drew away from him, but he grabbed her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “I have waited a long time for this.”

***

Kennedy crept over to the door, feeling for the pistol in his belt. Du Vallon was just outside; he could hear the man clearly now. He caught sight of his own reflection in the mirror over the dressing table and grinned – he looked like a sweep, his teeth alarmingly white in his soot-blackened face. Taking a moment to smear the stuff further over his face and hair, he pulled his scarf higher over his mouth and nose, and turned to the half-open doorway.

***

“Come. It is time we were gone,” du Vallon snapped, stowing the book inside his coat. He nodded to the scarred man holding Anna. “Bring her.”

“I would rather die!” she hissed, struggling in the stocky Frenchman’s grip.

“You may yet have your wish, chérie,” du Vallon told her, stroking her cheek. Hornblower barely caught the words he spoke softly into her ear, but they sounded like, “When I am done, you will be begging me on your knees to kill you as you did that boy.”

For a long moment, Anna regarded him. There was fire in her eyes, more than the kindling of anger; a wall of flame burned deep within them. Hornblower could only guess at the circumstances that fuelled such a hatred. Anna drew herself up to her full, impressive height, and very deliberately spat in du Vallon’s face. “That is what I think of your threats!”

Quicker than the eye could follow, he grabbed her by the throat. She gasped as he squeezed, face contorted in a diabolical smile. “It would give me pleasure to snap your neck, my lady,” he whispered, “but I would so dislike to deny myself a little amusement first. Perhaps I should slit your English lover’s throat before your eyes.”

“For God’s sake, man!” Hornblower exclaimed, wishing desperately that there were something he could do. Anna was choking as du Vallon put greater pressure on her windpipe, her eyes bulging. “If you must torture someone, let it be me!”

Du Vallon glanced over his shoulder. “Do not worry, capitaine, your time will come soon enough.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” said a new voice, gruff and somehow familiar, from behind him.

Du Vallon turned in surprise, and was slammed in the face with a blackened fist.

***

That voice!

Bush had heard it, too, and recognised it more readily than Hornblower. He was unlikely to forget the man who had humiliated them so well on the road to London. But how the devil did he come to be here, now?

There was a shout from someone, the sound of a body falling heavily to the floor, confused yelling in French.

Bush had had enough of being trapped behind this blasted door. For once in his life, he was going to take a risk.

He raised the pistols, aimed them at the lock, and pulled the triggers.

***

The landing descended into chaos.

***

It was impossible to tell what happened.

Barely moments after du Vallon fell, there was an explosion from somewhere to Hornblower’s right, almost deafening him. The darkened landing was suddenly full of smoke – he thought he heard Bush’s voice, yelling something unintelligible, as loud as though he were barely a few feet away.

There was an answering shout from Anna, but Hornblower’s ears were ringing and he could not make out the words. Dark figures grappled ahead of him, silhouetted against the window as their struggle took them to the banister rail. He blinked, trying to make them out through the still-drifting smoke – the tall figure of du Vallon was clear, but the other…that was not Bush’s slighter, leaner form. Who the devil was it?

Du Vallon’s voice rang out, sharp, barking an order. Quite suddenly, the knife moved from Hornblower’s throat. For a moment, he was too startled to take advantage of the relaxed grip.

When he did, it was short-lived. He tried to pull away, but something came crashing down on the back of his skull, sending sparks flying across his vision. The world titled, the floor came rushing up to meet him, and everything was swallowed by darkness.

***

Anna gasped and struggled to draw breath as du Vallon’s grip on her throat was torn away.

For a moment, she stood frozen, limbs shuddering and refusing to obey the simplest command to move. The landing was a chaotic whirl of smoke and shadows – she could see nothing but blurred shapes, shifting drunkenly before her eyes.

“Hold her!” du Vallon yelled over his shoulder, and the shout was enough to break her paralysis. “Fools! Do not let her get away!”

A rough hand grabbed for her shoulder. Anna had no intention of being taken by surprise this time – she twisted her upper body, striking out blindly with a fist. Her hand connected with bone, jarring her arm, and she was rewarded by a yelp of pain from her assailant. Emboldened, she lashed out again, only to have her wrist caught in a strong grip. No! Desperately she did her utmost to pull away, to free herself, scratching at the fingers, using all of her strength, kicking out at her attacker as hard as she could. If only she could hit some vital spot…

“God damn it, Anna, it’s me!” a familiar voice exclaimed as her captor tried to back himself away from the blows she rained upon him. “Anna!” As the smoke cleared and her vision settled, Anna could quite suddenly see Bush there before her, holding her at arm’s length and ruefully rubbing his chin with the back of one hand.

“Oh, Will, I’m so sorry - ” she began, horrified, only to catch sight of movement in the shadow behind him. “Look out!”

The scarred man was there, a gun trained on Bush’s back. Bush turned, and, without letting go of Anna’s arm, swiftly swung the butt of the pistol he held like a club, smashing the man under the chin. It was almost a reflex action, something he did without having to think. The Frenchman, too slow to react, toppled like a felled tree, without making a sound.

Du Vallon was cursing, reeling back from a punch thrown by his assailant. The dark figure came at him again, teeth bared in a humourless smile. Anna could not imagine where the man had come from – he had seemed to appear from thin air. She could only hope from his actions that he was on their side.

“Will, who, is that man?” she asked, but Bush was looking around him, a frown creasing his brow, as though he had lost something vitally important.

***

Where was that man?

Bush stared around the landing, but could see no one but Kennedy, du Vallon and the crumpled form of the Frenchman he had struck down. He had heard that voice, the voice of the brigand who had robbed him on the road – where the hell was he?

“One of du Vallon’s men has escaped,” Anna said urgently, breaking into his thoughts. “Will, we have to do something!”

She was right. Bush glanced at the spent pistol he still held. Sensing his intention, Anna scooped up the fallen man’s gun, pressing it into his hand. Thankfully it had not gone off – Bush checked the powder and shot automatically, pulling back the hammer and raising the pistol as du Vallon staggered back under Kennedy’s onslaught once more. Wherever Kennedy had been, it had made a fierce, highly competent fighter of the boy – Bush could not imagine the lieutenant he had served with on Renown throwing punches with such skill.

“Don’t move, du Vallon,” he called, aiming the gun straight at the Frenchman’s head. At this range, barely six feet away, he could not miss. “Take one step, and I shoot.”

Du Vallon was breathing hard, wiping blood from his mouth. “Your threats are nothing to me, Bush.”

“I’ve shot many men in my time – I don’t usually miss. Do you wish to take a chance?”

“He’s telling the truth,” said Kennedy breathlessly. “He once shot and killed a Spanish colonel despite suffering a grievous wound. You would do better to surrender.”

Bush blinked in surprise – he had not realised that Kennedy had even been aware that he had killed Ortega. The subject had never arisen during those days in the hospital, and Bush nursed his guilt, not daring to even mention it. His hand wavered slightly.

Du Vallon smirked. “You are no danger, lieutenant.”

“Perhaps, but am I?” Before Bush even realised what she was doing, Anna had prised the pistol from his grip. Swallowing hard, she gripped the gun in both hands, aiming it square at her tormentor. “Will you take a chance with me?”

“With you?” du Vallon threw back his head and laughed. “I told you before, chérie – no one can kill me. And I should not bother, Monsieur Devereaux - ” he added, spinning and throwing out a fist to slam the approaching Kennedy in the stomach. Kennedy fell back with a shout that was abruptly choked off as all the air was driven from his lungs. He collapsed to the floor in the doorway, groaning. “I am not to be taken by surprise twice.” He turned to Bush. “Would you care to try, lieutenant?”

The superior smile on the man’s face was enough to make Bush’s anger boil over once more. Unarmed now, he leapt over the unconscious Frenchman at his feet, throwing all of his weight at du Vallon, but he had not reckoned on the colonel’s agility. The man neatly side stepped his attack, as though Bush were no more than a bothersome insect, almost pirouetting on his feet to fling out an arm which connected sharply with Bush’s injured shoulder, sending a wave of pain through him and knocking him off-balance. He tried desperately to regain it, but du Vallon pressed his advantage, giving him a mighty shove, propelling him backwards. Unable to halt his own momentum, the world lurching dizzily around him, Bush crashed into Anna, taking them both to the floor.

Anna shouted, scrambling out from under him, and the next thing he heard was a dull click, three inches from his ear – he barely had time to duck away as she fired the pistol. The resulting explosion of noise left his head pounding as though the bell ringers had returned to take up residence. Smoke and the acrid smell of gunpowder filled the air once more.

Anna threw the gun to the floor, almost crying with frustration. She swore, loudly and spectacularly. “He got away!”

Kennedy was suddenly there, soot-blackened from head to foot like a sweep, blood running from a cut along his cheekbone. He hauled Bush to his feet, doubling over, grimacing in pain. When questioned he waved away Bush’s concern. “It’s nothing,” he insisted, and smiled wryly. “When you’ve survived a pistol ball in the lung, this is no more than a knock.”

Curtains flapped in the breeze, drawing their attention to du Vallon’s exit – the window at the end of the passage was wide open. The landing was empty but for the three of them. The other Frenchman must have come round in the confusion and made his escape. Bush looked around, expecting someone to have been roused by the commotion, but no one came – surely the noise must have wakened the servants. Where the devil were Matthews and Styles? Where was Salomé? And where was the man from the road? Had he ever been there at all?

Bush helped Anna up, and she clung to him, sagging in his arms as the adrenalin left her. She was shaking - he held her, stroking her hair as she buried her head in his shoulder. It was then that he finally realised something was missing.

Kennedy was gazing around, too, his eyes wide in his black face. “Where the hell is Horatio?”

TBC


	15. Chapter Fourteen

“He’s gone,” said Anna, as the three of them stood there, staring around the landing as though, if they waited long enough, Hornblower might pop out of the walls.

“Du Vallon must have taken him,” Kennedy said, crouching at the top of the stairs, the candle he had lit held high. “There’s blood here. Damn it – there must have been a fourth man!”

Bush pulled away from Anna – it was clear to him whom the fourth man must have been. His attacker from the road had run. “We must get after them!”

“Wait!” Kennedy caught hold of his arm as he tried to pass. “Du Vallon will have covered his tracks – even now the trail will be cold.”

“Then what do you suggest we do? Let them get away?” Bush demanded. “For God’s sake, the man is your friend - ”

“We cannot charge at it like a bull at a gate, William,” said Kennedy swiftly, cutting him off. “I know du Vallon’s methods – he is a cunning devil. This needs subtlety.”

“And in the meantime Horatio is God knows where!”

“That is…unfortunate.”

“Unfortunate?” Bush barked a laugh, but there was little mirth in it. “Unfortunate? Is that all you can say? You reappear, after all this time - ”

“God damn it, Bush, think for once in your life! If we rush in there du Vallon will kill Horatio, no doubt of it,” Kennedy snapped. “We must consider our next move.”

“And you will also explain one or two things to me,” said Anna, her voice breaking into their quarrel. She stood watching them, her arms folded, a frown creasing her forehead. “I suggest,” she added, and there was a dangerous edge to the words, “that neither of you attempt to deceive me. I have been told too many lies.”

Kennedy took out a handkerchief, and began to wipe at the soot on his face. “I doubt that anyone could lie to you, Miss Maitland.”

“Oh, you would be surprised, Mr Devereaux.” She put particular emphasis on the name, and Bush found himself frowning, too. “Yes, I heard du Vallon call you that. I should have expected to find you here, but not that you and William should turn out to be such firm friends!”

“Devereaux? Is that what you’ve been calling yourself?” Bush asked.

Kennedy shrugged. “I’ve had many names over the past few years. It serves as well as any.”

Anna’s voice was tight as she said, “Perhaps, Will, you would care to explain to me how it is that you and Mr Hornblower come to know this…this traitor!”

“Traitor? Anna, this man is - ” Bush began, but she would not allow him to finish. There was fury in her eyes.

“This man is an associate of Antoine Lambért,” she hissed, her hands clenching reflexively at her sides. He put a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged him off. “This man is a traitor to England. He has been conspiring with French spies, selling our secrets to Napoleon!”

“I can assure you, Miss Maitland, I have been doing nothing of the sort,” said Kennedy. “Quite the opposite, in fact. I never knew I made such a poor impression when we met.”

Bush couldn’t quite believe his ears. “You’ve met before?”

“At home, in Amsworth,” said Anna, glaring at Kennedy. “He was Lambért’s friend – he always came when the smugglers did. He and that man betrayed my father!”

Kennedy shook his head. “No. Lambert betrayed your father, not I. It was always my intention to protect Richard. I made the arrangements to smuggle your mother out of France, I took care to keep your father’s name out of any documents. Lambert allowed me to make plans to use the traders’ boats, but when the time came they did not arrive. He betrayed my plans to du Vallon. We were forced to use the sloop, use du Vallon’s men. The coast would have been unprepared – they could have walked into England.” He glanced at Bush. “It was serendipity that washed you up on the beach in Amsworth. It aided my plans, saved them from wreck.”

Bush blinked in surprise. “You knew I was there? Why did you - ” Hornblower’s voice, from three monthss before, popped into his head, after their interview on board the Tonnant: “He knew. I’m sure he knew!” Bush had been unconvinced, but Horatio insisted that the admiral had somehow been aware of events before they even occurred. “Pellew,” he said now, suddenly understanding, “You told Pellew that I was there.”

“And he sent the Hotspur. You saved the day, William.” Kennedy grinned. “Thank God you never learnt to swim!”

Bush shook his head, smiling despite himself. “I never believed Pellew could see the future. And where the devil were you while I was being battered and nearly having my throat cut?”

Kennedy’s grin became rueful. “Searching for the book, which of course I never found.”

“Horatio picked it up in the tower. And du Vallon now has it. We must get it back.”

“The book is useless without the key.”

“And you have the key?”

“Not exactly,” Kennedy admitted, “But I know its location. We have to - ”

“My God,” said Anna suddenly, her eyes widening in disbelief. She had been watching the two of them closely, her frown deepening, but had said nothing. Now she stared at Kennedy. “My God,” she said again, “You’re him, aren’t you?”

“That depends upon which ‘him’ you mean, Miss Maitland,” said Kennedy lightly. “I’ve been many men in my time.”

“I should have guessed immediately – the way you speak to one another, you are so relaxed in each other’s company…” She turned to Bush. “Will, tell me the truth. Is this man -?”

Bush glanced at Kennedy, who nodded. “Yes,” he said, “Anna, this is former Lieutenant Archie Kennedy, now a spy for the His Majesty’s Government. The man I believed to be dead.”

***

“Why?” Anna exclaimed. “Why would you let your friends believe you to be dead?”

“I have had my reasons,” said Kennedy, glancing at Bush. “I am not entirely proud of them, but needs must at times. As far as everyone is aware, Archie Kennedy died a convicted mutineer in Kingston.”

“But to deceive them…William has - ”

Bush rested a hand on her arm. “There is time enough for recriminations later, Anna. We have more pressing concerns.”

“Quite. I owe you an explanation, William, and you will have it, I swear, but not now,” Kennedy told him.

Bush nodded. “Then I suggest we try to make up for the time we have lost – we need to find the servants, and Horatio.”

***

A search of the house revealed a scene in the kitchen reminiscent of a fairytale.

The place was silent, pots and pans abandoned on the range, their contents either boiled dry or charred beyond repair. In the servants’ hall, a spell appeared to have been cast – half the household were slumped over the table, surrounded by the remains of their evening meal. An almost empty pot of stew sat in the centre of this bizarre tableau.

Kennedy bent over it, sniffing the contents. “Laudanum,” he reported. “Du Vallon’s work, no doubt.”

“Christ.” Bush looked around at the unconscious staff. “He must have used enough to fell an ox.”

Anna was checking for pulses. “They are all still breathing, thank goodness.”

“This explains why no one was disturbed by the commotion upstairs.”

“Someone must have planned this,” Anna said, circling the table. Anger, and fear were welling up within her once again. She fought them down, struggling to keep her voice steady. “They must have had help from within the house. How else would they have known that my grandparents would be out this evening?”

“Oh, it was most definitely planned, Miss Maitland,” said Kennedy, “and it is no coincidence that your grandfather chose tonight to leave the house empty.”

She frowned, not liking his tone. It was difficult to know what to make of him – on the surface he was good-looking, confident, with a smooth tongue, but Anna never set much store by first impressions. This was a man who had evidently deceived his friends, let them continue to mourn for him for more than two years, and yet could suddenly reappear as though nothing had happened. She could not feel comfortable with the situation, and she could tell that, however pleased and relieved he was to find Kennedy still alive, Bush did not, either. Every so often she would catch him glancing warily in Kennedy’s direction, and guessed that the question in his mind echoed her own: could they trust him? “What are you implying, Mr Kennedy?” she asked now.

He opened his mouth to reply, but before he could speak there came a noise from the other side of the room, startling them all. None of the servants had moved – Anna glanced quickly around, trying to work out where the sound had come from.

The three of them listened. After a moment, the sound came again. It was hard to make out what it could be – it sounded vaguely like an animal, but there were none in the house.

“It came from over here.” Bush’s sharp ears had picked out the source of the noise – he was already striding over to the big old cupboard in the corner of the room. He tried the handle, but the door would not move. “It’s locked.” Putting his ear to the wood, he listened for a moment before his eyes widened incredulously. “There’s someone inside!”

“Stand aside.” Kennedy had picked up a heavy soup ladle from the side, weighing it in his hand. He swung it at the lock – old and rusting, after three attacks of this nature it fell away, shattering on the flagstones of the floor. Bush pulled open the door, and a moment later a small, dishevelled figure tumbled out into his arms.

“Salomé!” Anna exclaimed, barely able to believe her eyes. Salomé was gasping, gulping down air and clinging to Bush desperately. “Dear God – what in the world were you doing in there?”

“It doesn’t take much to work out that du Vallon took her by surprise,” said Kennedy, and Salomé nodded, her tangled hair falling back to reveal a white, tearstained face. “She was to open the back door for me. When I arrived I found it fastened, hence my…unorthodox entry through the window.”

“For you?” Anna stared at him. “Salomé has been helping you? Why?”

“Because she wishes to see du Vallon brought to justice even more than you do. Her assistance has been invaluable – she has kept me informed of everything that has been going on in this house.”

“My God. Salomé has been the spy?” Anna turned to her cousin. “How could you do such a thing? You must have led du Vallon to us!”

Salomé fiercely shook her head. She was leaning against Bush in a way that Anna could not like, holding onto him as though he were her only safe haven. He looked a little uncomfortable, but nevertheless put an arm around her, letting her bury her head in his shoulder.

“Salomé and I have been in contact for some time now,” said Kennedy, “but she didn’t lead him here. Why would a woman who has been so appallingly treated by du Vallon help him? I have been working to bring him down, and she has been assisting me. There is more than one spy in this house, Miss Maitland.”

“Then who the hell is the other?” Bush asked. Before anyone could reply, he answered his own question: “That footman, Robert. I’d put money on it.”

“Robert?” Anna could hardly believe what she was hearing. Was no one in the house to be trusted? She glanced around the room – there was no sign of Robert amongst the inert bodies around the table. He would have been ideally placed to slip the drug into the food… “But why?”

Kennedy’s reply was enough to make her begin to believe that either she was locked in the grip of some nightmare, or the world had run mad. “He has been acting on the orders of the marquis,” he said. “I suggest, Miss Maitland, that you question your grandfather on the subject of his loyalty.”

***

Anna stared at Kennedy. “You’re lying, you have to be! Why would my grandfather help the man who destroyed him?”

“Perhaps that is a question for him,” Kennedy said, turning away.

She reached out before Bush could stop her and grabbed Kennedy’s arm, spinning him round with surprising strength to face her. Salomé hid behind Bush, watching her cousin with big terrified eyes. “How dare you?” Anna demanded furiously, “How dare you come into my home and overturn everything?”

“Anna - ” Bush began, but she batted his hand away.

“Don’t you dare stand up for him,” she snapped, rounding on him. “He has treated you as nothing, not even bothering to let you know that he was all right! How could you even think to defend him?”

“This is not black and white. I can save my judgements for later,” he told her quietly.

She snorted in disbelief, returning her blazing gaze to Kennedy. “You brought du Vallon here, no one else. Do you not think my family has suffered enough at his hands?”

Kennedy looked rather taken back by this outburst of fury. “I can assure you that I would do nothing to harm your family further. You must believe me when I tell you that I speak the truth. Your grandfather has betrayed you.”

“Du Vallon came to see the marquis today,” said Bush, and Anna stared at him, eyes wide, slowly shaking her head. He managed to catch hold of her hand and squeezed it in a way he hoped she might find reassuring. “I saw him. At the time I had no idea who he was, still had none until Archie told me. I would never have let him into the house had I known.”

“No.” She was still shaking her head, her eyes now staring blankly at him. “I don’t believe you. Why would my grandfather have anything to do with him? You must be mistaken.”

“Anna.” He bent his head, trying to meet her gaze. “Anna, it was du Vallon. Would I lie to you?”

Eventually, she came back, her vision clearing. She looked at him. “I have to know. I have to know why he has done this to us.”

Bush nodded. He very much wanted to know what the hell was going on, too. “We’ll confront him together, I promise.”

She smiled, and let him hold her. “Thank you.”

Kennedy cleared his throat. They both turned to look at him as he pointed upwards. From here carriage wheels could clearly be heard in the street outside. “You may get your chance sooner than you think.”

***

“A very successful evening, sir, I congratulate you.”

The marquis waved away his son-in-law’s praise. “It was nothing, my dear Richard, nothing at all. To play against such pygmies is no challenge at all. One might almost feel guilty to take their money.”

“I notice such sensibilities did not prevent you,” muttered the marquise as Annette helped her up the steps.

“Not to do so would dishonour me, and them. I am merely following an established code. For me not to claim my rightful winnings would be a grand faux pas, chérie,” her husband said airily. The marquise exchanged a glance with her daughter but said nothing more on the subject. Instead she looked up at the front door, which remained stubbornly closed.

“Where is Robert?” she demanded. “Asleep again, I have no doubt. The man is an imbecile, and lazy with it. I shall turn him onto the street in the morning!” Raising her cane, she hammered on the door.

“Shhh, maman,” Annette pleaded, “Anna has the headache, and what of Monsieur Bush? You will wake them both.”

The marquise had a gleam in he eye. “I very much doubt if either of ‘em have been sleeping, petite,” she said with a dry chuckle.

“Maman!”

“Well, you did not suppose that daughter of yours to be staying behind for any other reason, do you? She has a good eye for a man, I will give her that. If I were thirty years younger…”

“Were that the case I may have had an eye for you myself,” Maitland said, amused. His wife shot him a glare. Her mother just cackled with laughter.

The marquis knocked on the door again, with a little less force than his wife. They waited, but there was no answer from within. He sighed. “Really, this is intolerable. One cannot get reliable staff nowadays. The servants desire to be the masters, and no one wishes to do any work. I have no idea where it will all end, I am sure.”

Maitland found his door key in his pocket. “Never fear, sir, we will enter under by our own means.”

The marquise gave him an approving look. “At least someone has his wits about him,” she said.

Before Maitland could open the door, however, it swung open of its own accord. To his surprise, instead of Robert Matthews and Styles stood there, both looking somewhat the worse for wear.

“Is something wrong?” Maitland asked, concern immediately rising within him. “Where is Robert?”

Matthews was looking worried. He knuckled his forehead, evidently seeing the marquis and marquise watching him with frowns. “Begging yer pardon, sir, but I think Miss Anna had better explain that. She’s waitin’ for you in the drawin’ room, if you’d all step that way, sir.”

“At this time of night?” the marquis exclaimed. “Nonsense. Whatever it is can wait until the morning, I am sure.”

“Sorry, sir, but we’ve ‘ad orders to bring you all to the drawin’ room,” said Styles. There was no menace in the words, but Maitland could sense an undercurrent to the big man’s tone that made it evident they were to do as they were told.

“Whose orders?” the marquis demanded.

“Miss Anna’s sir. And Mr Bush.”

“This is ridiculous! Monsieur Bush has no authority in my house!”

The marquise pushed past her husband, hobbling into the hall. “Thank you, gentlemen, we shall attend my granddaughter at once.”

“Marguerite, chérie, wait!” the marquis shouted, starting after her, but she paid him no heed. Once she was on level ground, aided by her stick, the marquise could move swiftly, and was already halfway across the hall. Annette hurried after her parents, Richard following, Styles and Matthews bringing up the rear.

“What the devil is going on, Matthews?” Maitland demanded of the bos’n.

“I’m not at liberty to say, sir, I’m sorry,” the man replied apologetically. “Mr Bush’s orders.”

“Well, where is Mr Hornblower? I cannot have Bush taking over the household like this – it’s absurd! Who the hell does he think he is?”

“William has my full support, Pa,” came Anna’s voice through the now open drawing room doorway. Maitland crossed the threshold to find his daughter standing before the fireplace, her head held high and her eyes hard. There was a set look on her face that he had not seen in some time. Beside her, almost lost in a big armchair, was Salomé, a glass of brandy in her trembling hand. Behind the chair stood Bush, dishevelled in shirt and trousers, bruises on his chin and forehead. There was a pistol held loosely in his hand.

“What is the meaning of this?” the marquis said sharply, his voice rising. “Do you think to usurp my authority in my own home, Monsieur Bush?”

Annette was looking around her in consternation. “Anna, chérie, what is happening?”

“Perhaps you had better ask grandpére, maman. He has the answers,” Anna replied, staring at the marquis with something akin to loathing.

“Papa?” Annette turned to her father.

“She is telling stories, ma chére,” said the marquis, waving a hand dismissively. His wife was watching him with narrowed eyes. “There is nothing for me to say. Anna has allowed her fondest for this ruffian - ” He gestured to Bush “ – to cloud her judgement. You disappoint me, Monsieur Bush. I had thought better of you.”

“And I of you, sir,” Bush said softly.

“Anna, what has happened here tonight?” Maitland asked, deciding that the time had come to break this apparent deadlock. It was clear that the marquis would continue to prevaricate if allowed, and this situation could not continue. “I suggest that you and Mr Bush explain.”

“Very well, sir.” Bush nodded to his men. “Keep guard outside.”

“Aye, sir. We’ll be within easy call, sir,” said Matthews, and he and Styles withdrew.

The marquis fixed his granddaughter with a bold stare. “Well? What is it you have to say to me?”

“Merely this,” announced a new voice. “How long have you known of Francois du Vallon’s presence in England?” A door had opened in the corner of the room, and a tall young man came through it. His clothes were blackened with soot, as was his blond hair, but his face was clean, and Maitland would have known it anywhere.

“Good God!” he exclaimed. “Devereaux!” This man had helped his wife escape from France, but he was no loyal Englishman.

The man bowed slightly, a theatrical dip of his body. Bush gave him a sidelong glance, his eyes briefly widening, but said nothing. “Mr Maitland. Delighted to see you once more.”

“Monsieur Devereaux.” Annette was staring at the new arrival, as though unsure whether to thank him for finding her safe passage from France or vilify him for a traitor. “I did not - ”

“You would be unwise to listen to this man, Anna,” Maitland said, “He is an associate of Lambert’s, a traitor of the worst kind.”

“I am withholding my judgement until I have heard what my grandfather has to say,” Anna replied.

“I have nothing to say!” the marquis said indignantly. “This is farcical, ludicrous! I will answer no questions!”

“Did he just say ‘Francois du Vallon’?” the marquise demanded, her black gaze raking the occupants of the room. “Is not the devil dead?”

“I am afraid not, ma’am,” said Bush. “He was here in this house this very morning. I saw him with my own eyes.”

There was a sharp intake of breath from Annette. “In this house? Why? What more can he possibly want from us?”

Devereaux looked at the marquis – the old man refused to meet his gaze, turning his head away defiantly. “I am sorry to inform you all that the marquis has been reckless at the card tables. I am sure he will deny it, but he has been losing what money he had, playing for high stakes. I know – I have been there, and seen him in the clubs, writing one promissory note after another. There is no money left.”

The marquise limped over to her husband, fury in her dark eyes. “Is this true, Henri?”

“I have been playing a trifle deep, I will admit, but there is money. There will be money!” he insisted.

She looked at him for a long, long moment, her face expressionless. Then, quite suddenly, and with such savage force that even Maitland jumped, she slapped him across the face. That an old woman should possess such strength in her wizened frame was astonishing. The sound of the blow bounced from the walls like a gunshot. “Liar!” she cried, “Menteur! Always you lie to me!”

“Marguerite, chérie - ” the marquis babbled, clutching his reeddening cheek, but she was having none of it. She whirled away, turning her back sharply on him.

“Monsieur Devereaux, since you seem to be informed of every detail of my husband’s affairs, perhaps you will tell me the truth,” she said, her voice abruptly level. “How much money is left?”

“Nothing,” Devereaux said simply. “Du Vallon has bought all of the marquis’s debts. He has every note, every bill, even the papers for this house in his possession.” He paused, looking around at the assembled company before adding, “He owns you all.”

TBC


	16. Chapter Fifteen

Every pair of eyes in the room was fixed on the marquis.

“I do not understand,” Annette said, voicing the thoughts of most of the assembled company. She turned to her father. “Papa? Please explain.”

The marquis would not look at her, arrogantly staring ahead of him, chin raised defiantly.

“He cannot explain,” the marquise said bitterly. “He will try to make excuses and wriggle free, but he cannot explain.”

“How do you come by this knowledge, Mr Devereaux?” Maitland asked. “Have you been continuing that which you began, spying upon the affairs of this family?”

“I have merely been following my orders, sir,” Kennedy replied.

Maitland frowned. “Orders? Orders from whom?”

“A higher authority, sir. One to which I, albeit reluctantly, have pledged my loyalty and allegiance.”

“I see.” The big man turned away. “Bonaparte.”

“No, sir, the British government.”

“Mr ‘Devereaux’ is a spy, Pa,” said Anna. “He has spent two years tracking down Lambert and du Vallon, trying to bring them to justice.”

“A spy?” Annette stared at Kennedy. “Then all the time - ”

“I did all I could to make sure that you were safe, ma’am. That was one of my priorities. Never at any time did I wish to see any harm come to you,” Kennedy said.

“You knew that Lambért was working with du Vallon?”

He nodded. “And I knew what he had done to you. What he had done to all of you,” he added, glancing round at the family.

Maitland was still watching him with hostility, evidently seeing a man who had conspired with Lambert, the traitor who had betrayed him and would have brought him to the noose. Bush could understand Maitland’s reservations – he had thought he knew Kennedy, but was that really the case? Hornblower had thought so too, and he had been friends with Archie almost since they were boys. How well could anyone truly know another person? That thought made him glance over to Anna, but she was giving nothing away, her head held high. Her hands, however, were clasped tightly in front of her, and she seemed to be studiously avoiding looking in her grandfather’s direction.

“It seems then that I must thank you, Monsieur Devereaux,” said Annette, “Without your assistance I see that I may have been forever trapped in France.”

“You would believe his word?” the marquis exclaimed suddenly, glaring at Kennedy. “Him, a spy and a commoner, a man who hides in the shadows and never reveals even his own name? You would believe him over your own flesh and blood? He is a liar of the worst kind, a man who deceives and play-acts for a living!”

“Perhaps, sir, if you offered a defence your family could make up their own minds,” Bush said quietly. “You have said nothing.”

“I had no idea this was a trial, Monsieur Bush,” the old man snapped. “Having taken over my house by force, do you now seek to pass judgement upon me? I fear you are poorly qualified for the task.”

“I merely wish to know why you have betrayed your family, sir, nothing more,” Bush replied. “Better men than I will decide your fate.”

The marquis stared at him, and, more the slightest moment, there was a flicker of fear in the old man’s eyes. Bush met his gaze with a level one of his own. This man might have once been powerful, had the lives of thousands under his control, their existence his to do as he willed, crushing them underfoot if he chose. Now, he was nothing. Blinded by the thoughts of wealth and breeding, feeling himself ill-qualified to enter a world so far removed from his own, Bush had not seen beyond his own doubts and fears. Now he could finally see the truth. This man, for all his privileges, his higher station, was lower than Bush, lower even than the rats in the barn. He had betrayed those closest to him for the basest of reasons, and that was a sin that could never be forgiven.

“You would be wise to tell us, Henri,” said the marquise, “if only to stand a chance of saving your miserable hide.”

The old man looked at each and every one of them, observing the confusion in some eyes, the accusation in others, and finally nodded. “I can see that I have judge, jury and executioner all present before me.”

“That is not the way we handle such matters in England, sir,” Kennedy assured him, “Should you be guilty of any wrongdoing it is for a court to decide. We merely wish to know why you have done this to your family.”

There was a long pause before the marquis replied. “Very well,” he said finally, “It seems that you already have all of the answers, monsieur. It is true that I have been playing too deeply, far too deeply. And I have lost more often than not. I owe a great deal of money to some impatient and dishonourable men. I may have been…foolish.” The word came reluctantly, dragged from his throat with an effort. He looked straight at Kennedy and Bush, and for a moment the arrogance was back. “Have you gentlemen any idea how it feels to have your very reason for existence torn away from you? I once owned great estates, had scores of servants, more money than I knew what to do with. Now, I have nothing. I cannot even support my family. The British government claims to be sympathetic to the plight of the émigrés, but it has done little to help us.”

“There are other ways to support your family, sir,” said Bush sharply, “more honourable ways than this.”

“You wish me to seek employment, I suppose, Monsieur Bush? Debase myself before men I would until a short time ago regarded as my inferiors?”

“Other members of your family have done so.”

The marquis laughed harshly. “You suggest that I, Saint Clair of Saint Clair, serve one such as you?”

“I would never presume anything of the kind, sir. I have always supported myself and my family through my own labours,” Bush told him, eyes narrowing, “and there is no shame to be found in doing so. I need no one to serve me.”

Kennedy, seeing that the exchange could become dangerous, stepped in. “When did du Vallon contact you?” he asked.

“Barely a week ago,” the marquis replied, glaring at Bush, who returned the gaze with as disdainful an expression as he could muster. “I refused to see him, believing it to be some kind of hoax, an attempt to extort money from me. Robert was sent back to me bearing one of my notes, signed in my own hand. I could not refuse to receive this man – I was shocked to find that it truly was that monster. We had all believed him to be dead.”

“He had been trapped in the burning house when the soldiers came,” Annette explained. She was holding tightly to Maitland’s hand, her voice trembling as she recalled what must have been a terrifying experience. “He led them into the fire, believing us to be hiding upstairs. We took the children down the back staircase – I carried Samuel bundled in my shawl. The roof was falling in above us. Sammy was just a baby, and he screamed so…I knew that we would be discovered at any moment.”

“The ceiling of the ballroom collapsed, taking half the first and second floor with it,” Maitland said. “Du Vallon and his men were caught at the front of the house – Annette and the children had escaped into the servants’ quarters. The stairs fell in – Annette was trapped on the wrong side of the debris.”

“We did not see him again,” Annette’s eyes were fixed on the floor. “I watched the house crumble from a distance. How I wanted to believe that he died in the fire, that he would be punished for his actions. Now I know that such things do not happen.”

“And you received him, received the man responsible for denouncing your son,” said the marquise, her black eyes fixed on the defiant face of her husband, contempt in every line of her weathered face, “the man who murdered your own flesh and blood, sent him to the guillotine!”

“How could I not?” he demanded. “He had everything in the very palm of his hand. He could crush me, destroy me once again! Mon Dieu, he could have foreclosed on us at any time! We have certainly lost the house – he threatened to put us out onto the streets within hours! What would you have had me do, Marguerite?”

“I would have had you behave as the honourable man I once believed you to be,” she hissed. “I should have guessed that he was long dead! To sell your soul for a few miserable francs…and to du Vallon!”

“Du Vallon did not want money, grandpapa, did he?” asked Anna. Her voice was tight but level. Her hands were clasped so tightly that the knuckles had whitened. Bush was suddenly overcome by a burning desire to just hold her, to tell her that everything would be all right, that he would protect her, but he fought it down. This was not the time, and Anna was so fiercely independent - would she even allow him to help her?

“He told me that our visitors would be bringing with them a book, a book of vital importance to him,” said the marquis. “I was to discover the whereabouts of the book and contact him. Once he had successfully recovered it, he would cancel all of my debts.”

“And you believed him?” The marquise barked a laugh, but there was no mirth to be found within it. “So naïve! He must have known you for the fool you are, Henri.”

“What could I have done? Two Englishmen and their orders meant little to me.”

“And so you betrayed us,” Bush said. He deliberately lifted the pistol, taking a firmer grip on it. Kennedy did the same. The marquis finally had the decency to look frightened. “The book is gone, in the hands of the man who can probably do the utmost damage with it. My captain has been abducted, Anna has been battered and threatened, Miss Saint Clair has been terrified out of her wits and Mr…Devereaux and I could have been killed. Are you satisfied with you work, sir? Was it worth it?”

“William.” Kennedy’s hand on his arm held him back – he realised that he had stepped up to the marquis; his face barely inches away from the old man’s own. The pistol hovered in the air between them, Bush’s finger reflexively on the trigger. He took a step back, but did not lower the gun. “I believe that we have every reason to hand you over to the authorities, my lord,” Kennedy said.

“The book is gone?” Maitland asked sharply.

“As is Mr Hornblower,” Bush told him. “Du Vallon would have taken Anna, too, given the chance.”

“I think that you should explain exactly what has been going on here in our absence.” Maitland glanced at his father-in-law. “Then we will decide what is to be done.”

***

“Dear God.” The marquise sank into a chair, one hand over her eyes. After a long moment, she looked up to pin her husband with an accusing glare. “How could you do this to us, Henri? You have destroyed this family utterly.”

The marquis could not meet her gaze. He had said nothing while Bush and Kennedy had recounted all that had transpired that night, gaze fixed firmly on the carpet, standing alone by the window, shunned by everyone in the room. The superiority in his stance, the authority, arrogance in his expression had all gone. Bush looked at him and saw a broken, defeated man. He had finally realised the consequences his actions had visited upon his family. When he had heard how du Vallon treated Anna, Bush had thought that the old man might collapse. Anna bore the evidence in the bruises and scars on her face; they had no choice but to believe.

“One thing is clear,” Maitland said now, “We are dealing with state secrets, sensitive information. We cannot simply go to the authorities. The story is so preposterous on the face of it that they would never believe us.”

“Pa, you will surely not allow them to get away with this!” Anna exclaimed.

“What do you suggest I do? Have the militia take away your grandfather?”

“If needs be, yes!”

“Anna!” Annette cried, staring at her daughter in amazement. “How can you even suggest such a thing?”

“He has put this entire family in danger, maman! We might all have been killed in our beds! Du Vallon hates us, he has been determined to bring us down, every one of us,” Anna said. “Uncle Jean’s death was not enough for him; we must all perish if he is to be satisfied. He has Lambert’s secrets now, he will use them, and he will implicate us somehow. He has already used grandpapa, dragged his name into the affair. What is to stop him from sending some of us to the gallows in his stead? It would be a victory for him! And grandpapa has helped him! Do you suggest that he is not to be punished for that?”

“He has committed treason,” said Kennedy.

“I am not a British citizen, Mr Devereaux,” the marquis told him, “Against whom has this treason been committed?”

“Britain took you in and sheltered you, sir,” said Bush quietly, “Do you owe her no loyalty?”

The old man could not answer. He looked away, shoulders hunched.

“What do you propose to do?” the marquise asked wearily. She held out a hand to Annette, who took it and clasped it tightly. “Arrest him?”

“It would serve little purpose,” Kennedy said, exchanging a glance with Bush. Bush was personally reluctant to leave the marquis free – how did they know that he would not contact du Vallon at the first opportunity? However, it was true that the old man could not be a danger to his family. “Mr Bush and I will deal with the matter. We will recover both the book and Mr Hornblower.” Kennedy grinned. “I believe such a feat is well within our capabilities.”

***

“‘Well within our capabilities’? What the devil are you thinking?”

Kennedy followed Bush up the stairs, having to hurry to catch up. “Come on, William, how could we involve the authorities? I have had my orders, to involve no one unless absolutely necessary.”

“And you do not deem Horatio’s disappearance a necessity?” Bush snorted and continued on his way, quickening his pace and forcing Kennedy into a run. “This has gone far enough. It’s time to do what should have been done days ago, and inform the Admiralty.”

“No.” Breathless, Kennedy caught hold of his arm, grasping it tightly. “The Admiralty must not be contacted, not at any cost.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! They must know that Horatio is missing – it is my duty to report the loss of my captain.” Bush tried to shake the other man off, but Kennedy refused to let go.

“William, you must not approach the Admiralty. If you do, all of the work I have done in the last two years will be as nothing,” he said seriously. “I mean it. I cannot let you overturn everything.”

Bush looked dispassionately at the hand clasping his sleeve, and then very slowly and deliberately pulled away. “You can hardly expect me to understand if you do not explain yourself. Or perhaps you just don’t trust me enough,” he added pointedly, and walked away.

“William - !” There was frustration in Kennedy’s voice. After a moment, he followed, shutting – as best he could, given the damage inflicted by Bush’s pistols - the door of Bush’s room behind them. “The Admiralty know nothing of any of this,” he said, and Bush raised a sceptical eyebrow, “Pellew is acting independently. I am working under his orders alone.”

“That being the case, an order to report to the Admiralty on our arrival seems rather strange.”

“You would have been met by one of my people. He did not arrive, hence Horatio being turned away at the gate. Foster is indeed away – no one would have been expecting you. Any communication you received from the Admiralty came from me. Du Vallon has a contact that has access to sensitive information, which is one of the channels by which he discovered that Hotspur had been involved with the business in Amsworth. We have yet to establish the identity of that contact, but until we do, nothing must be done to alert them to our presence. This is vital, William,” Kennedy added, “You do understand that?”

Bush hefted his travelling bag onto the bed and began to rifle through its contents. “Then we do nothing to find Horatio? We just let du Vallon kill him? A harsh judgement from one he once called friend.”

Kennedy flinched. “Horatio would understand. He would not thank us for risking all merely to save his skin. It is our duty to stop du Vallon, Horatio would agree.”

“I have a duty to my captain.”

“Your duty, Mr Bush, is to follow your orders.”

“And from whom do those orders come?” Bush pulled out his uniform jacket and laid it on the bed. He glanced up to see Kennedy give that theatrical little bow once more. That gesture reminded him of something – it was nagging at the back of his mind, out of reach. “From you? Don’t be ludicrous! What kind of rank do you hold?”

Kennedy reached inside his coat and withdrew a folded sheet of paper, which he wordlessly handed to Bush. Frowning, Bush took it to the window, squinting at its contents in the encroaching daylight.

‘I, Edward Pellew, hereby bestow upon Francis Devereaux all powers and authorities to commandeer His Majesty’s Sloop Hotspur and her crew in order to felicitate the completion of his orders, and command the captain of said vessel to give Mr Devereaux all support and assistance.

Signed Ed. Pellew (Bt)’

“Du Vallon has a yacht, moored some way down the coast in Kent,” said Kennedy. “Now that he has the book he will be headed there. We may still be able to catch him before he gets to far out into the channel.”

“Christ.” Bush looked at the letter again, then back at Kennedy. Surely Pellew was bestowing powers that were not his to give! The letter looked genuine enough, the wax of the seal bearing the imprint of Pellew’s crest, but even so… “But Hotspur is at Portsmouth – she could never reach Chatham in time - ”

“Pellew sent her up two days ago, under the command of Mr Orrock,” said Kennedy. “She has been waiting there and completing repairs.” He smiled. “Well, Mr Bush – or should I say, Acting Captain Bush, it seems that you and I are going to sea once more.”

***

“Is that clear, Matthews? You and Styles report to Mr Orrock and tell him to make ready to sail on the first tide.”

Matthews nodded. “Aye, aye, sir. And the captain?”

“The captain is missing, Matthews,” Bush said reluctantly. The fewer people aware of the Hornblower’s disappearance the better. “As is the book. It is my intention to recover them both. Now, get going, both of you. We have only a few hours before the tide turns.”

“Aye, sir.” The two withdrew, leaving Bush to finish dressing. He had found them in the quarters allotted to Matthews above the stables, suffering the inevitable effects of the opiate-laced stew. Fortunately they had not eaten too much of it, perhaps alerted by the taste, and had been easy to revive with a well-aimed bucket of water. They had sore heads, but seemed to be otherwise unharmed. Bush would be heartily glad to leave the city and get back aboard ship where he belonged. The sea was his world, and there he knew the rules - here he was floundering like a fish caught and tossed up on deck, utterly removed from its own element.

He was buckling on his sword when Anna found him. She watched from the doorway as he reached for his jacket and pulled it on - the heavy wool clung to him in the heat, but it felt comfortable, familiar to be back in uniform. He suddenly had a purpose once more.

“So,” she said, coming properly into the room, “You are leaving us, then.”

“I have to find Horatio. And the book. Du Vallon must be stopped,” Bush told her, fumbling with his buttons. His head was still swimming, making tasks which required concentration a chore.

She gently batted his hands away, fastening the buttons herself. “Where are you going?” she asked casually, as though the answer did not matter to her. He did not believe that to be the case for a moment.

“Hotspur is at Chatham. Archie and I will join her as soon as possible.”

Anna brushed away a speck of imaginary dust from his shoulder, straightening his lapels and pulling his queue free of the collar. “Give me five minutes to pack a bag.”

For a moment, he barely registered what she had said, and for a couple more was convinced that he had misheard. He blinked. “What?”

“I am coming with you,” she said, raising her head and meeting his eyes with that same determination he had seen on the beach at Amsworth, when he had ordered her to return to the house and she had refused. “Du Vallon has been persecuting our family for years, he has all but destroyed us, turned us one against another – he must pay for it. One of us must see this thing through to the end.”

Bush shook his head. “No. A fighting ship is no place for a lady.”

“William, I am not to be dissuaded. I must see him punished! It is the only way to finish this, the only way to be free of him!”

“No, Anna. I forbid it. And this time you are going to heed me.” When she turned away in frustration he caught hold of her arms, gripping them firmly, forcing her to look at him. “Listen to me for God’s sake! For once in your life believe me when I say that this is not your fight! I know that you want to see du Vallon brought to justice, and I understand that after everything he has done, but please, Anna, a sloop of war is no place for woman, even a woman s brave and resourceful as you. I will not take the risk of you being killed, do you understand?”

She looked at him, right into his eyes, for a long time. Eventually she nodded.

“Good.” Bush bent his head and kissed her, roughly, before drawing her into his arms and holding her close. She clung to him with equal strength, resting her chin on his shoulder. “God, tonight I thought I might lose you,” he whispered, “I couldn’t bear it.” She mumbled something into his jacket, her arms tightening around his waist.

“William?” said a voice behind them. Bush lifted his head to see Kennedy standing there, hat in hand. “We should be gone, Mr Bush,” he said quietly, “We have work to do.”

Anna pulled away from Bush, brushing her lips against his once more as he released her. When he looked into her eyes again they were hard, and her expression was cold. “I know that you will see that justice is done. When you catch him, do not allow him a quick death. Make him suffer as we have suffered.” she said, and walked away.

At the door she stopped on the threshold and turned back to look at them.

“And then let him rot in hell.”

TBC


	17. Chapter Sixteen

Hornblower awoke with a splitting headache.

Any movement sent fire crashing though his skull. He made one or two attempts to open his eyes, but the effort was such that he soon abandoned the idea. His whole body felt as though he had been soundly beaten with a belaying pin, but the worst pain spread from the base of his neck to the side of his head. It crept down his jawbone, making his teeth ache.

Lying as still as possible, he tried to remember what had happened. He could hazily recall the fight, Anna screaming, Bush suddenly appearing, but beyond that there was nothing. His stomach twisted anxiously – he had no idea of the outcome. Were they safe, du Vallon routed, or were they even now prisoners, or worse?

He was not going to find out lying here. Steeling himself against the pain, he slowly raised his head, forcing his eyes open a fraction. Cramp was making itself felt in the muscles of his back and shoulders, screaming as he tried to move. He was lying on bare boards, his nose barely an inch from their surface. The familiar smell of brine and the gentle undulation of the boards told him almost without conscious thought that he was on a ship, and that ship was at sea.

Startled, he tried to sit up, and found to his surprise that he could not. This inability had little to do with the agony in his head, which blurred his vision and caused him to bite down hard on his lower lip to keep from crying out – he discovered, once the world had stopped spinning and some semblance of coherent thought returned, that his hands had been bound tightly behind his back. His ankles were similarly pinioned, hampering all but the slightest movement.

It was clear that, whatever had happened to Anna and Bush, he was a captive himself. But a captive of whom? Du Vallon? Or someone even worse?

Hornblower dropped his pounding head back down to rest on the boards, and began to carefully explore the knots that held him bound.

***

“You’re leaving? What about the rest of us? What are we to do now?” Maitland demanded.

“I suggest that you all remain inside the house,” Kennedy replied. “I will contact Admiral Pellew and he will take it from here.”

Maitland nodded towards the marquis, hunched on a chair in the corner. “And him?”

“He has been foolish, but I don’t believe we can regard him as dangerous.” Kennedy looked at Bush, who just flicked an eyebrow. “We may safely leave him in your custody, Mr Maitland.”

Bush was at the door, hat in hand. “Don’t answer the door to anyone after we’ve gone,” he said, eyeing Maitland seriously. “Du Vallon may still have agents in the area. Barricade yourselves inside with as many trustworthy servants as you can find.”

The big man nodded once more. “Good luck, gentlemen.”

“Where is Anna?” Annette asked, glancing around the room as though she expected her daughter and Bush to be joined at the hip.

“It’s all right, ma’am, she’s safe upstairs,” Bush assured her. He put on his hat. “Come on, Mr…Devereaux. We must leave now if we are to catch the tide.”

***

Kennedy had a horse waiting outside, patiently cropping the grass in the park in the centre of the square.

After his experiences the previous day, Bush was somewhat reluctant to ride again so soon, and the effects of his fall were still making themselves felt. Once they were back aboard the Hotspur he hoped he would manage to find five minutes to close his eyes and stop the world spinning every time he moved his head. He scrambled into the saddle with considerably less than his usual ease, wobbling alarmingly. Kennedy climbed up behind him, steadying Bush against his own body and taking the reins. Bush felt like a child again, taken up for a ride with his uncle.

“Chatham, then,” he said as Kennedy turned the horse’s head and touched his heels to its flanks.

“We have a stop to make on the way. I need to fetch one or two things, and apprise my associates of developments. We will make Hotspur in good time,” Kennedy added when he saw the look of irritation on Bush’s face.

“This is not a game, Mr Kennedy.” Bush said sharply.

“I can assure you that I never thought it was, Mr Bush,” came the nonchalant reply.

They were barely out in the street when Bush caught sight of a flurry of white in the dim morning light – the shape resolved itself into the diminutive figure of Salomé, running as fast as she could across the road from the house. Breathless, she skidded to a halt beside the horse. There was something clasped in her hand as she held it upwards – as she opened her fingers, Bush was surprised to see that it was his watch. He had evidently left it behind when he was dressing, an oversight he would have regretted later. Thanking her, he took the timepiece, sipping it into his waistcoat pocket. It was only then that he stopped to wonder what she had been doing in his room.

“You know where to contact me,” Kennedy said to her, and she nodded. “If needs be, send word to the usual place. Someone will respond and get a message to me.”

“Will you be all right?” Bush asked, remembering how frightened she had been, barely a few hours before.

Smiling as much as she ever did, she nodded again, and reached up to take his hand. Bush was surprised by the warmth of her touch – she squeezed his fingers for several seconds before letting him go. When she took her hand away there was a guinea nestling in his palm. Bush stared at the coin – he had been carrying little money when the coach was attacked on the road, a few shillings and pennies and one guinea, all he had allowed himself to take on the journey. His watch had been returned, and now this…He looked at Salomé, suddenly recalling Styles’s description of the child he had seen running from the hayloft: “Young lad... ‘E were small enough…” And Matthews: “It wasn’t the stable boy… Styles said this one were dark…” Could it possibly have been…?

Kennedy turned the horse away, preventing Bush from asking the question on the tip of his tongue. “Take care of them,” he told Salomé, “We will return.”

Bush glanced back at the tiny figure in white standing behind them in the road. “My watch…it was her, she returned it! How the devil did she come by it?”

Kennedy did not reply, urging their mount into a trot. “This call should not take long. My associate rarely returns home until the early hours – she has a busy social schedule.”

“‘She’?” Bush momentarily forgot about Salomé. “This associate is a woman? Where in God’s name does she live to keep such hours?”

He could almost hear Kennedy smiling. “Tell me, Mr Bush – have you ever visited Drury Lane?”

***

Anna watched them go from the window, keeping her eyes upon the horse in the early morning light until it turned the corner and was finally out of sight.

She pulled the curtains tight across the window once more and turned to the bed. The valise had still been on the coverlet where Bush had left it – Anna had looked at the bag for several long moments, a plan forming in her mind, before she snatched it up and hurried back with it to her room.

She should have known that he would refuse to take her with him. Despite the threat of danger, despite the fact that he knew she could handle herself with a gun, the thought of having a woman aboard his ship somehow offended his sensibilities, she was sure. He wanted to protect her, to keep her safe – Anna could appreciate the sentiment, loved him all the more for his concern, but she could not make him understand that she wanted his support rather than his protection. She had been looking after herself for so long that to be kept in cotton wool was positively stifling. She could not stand the thought of hiding behind her petticoats while someone else took risks on her behalf. This was her fight, whatever William thought, it had been since she was fourteen years old and the revolution had ended her childhood, and she was damned if she would allow him to finish it without her.

Tipping out the contents of the valise onto the bed, she discovered Bush’s neatly-folded civilian clothes. He had left them behind, having no need them once back in uniform and aboard Hotspur – he would certainly not miss them. Swiftly, Anna stripped off her dress and petticoats. She was used to wearing men’s clothes, though it was some time since she had last been forced to disguise herself in such a way. Her father had insisted on the subterfuge as they fled from France – as a girl her height would have attracted unwanted attention, but a tall, blond youth caused little comment. There was a roll of bandage at the bottom of the bag, sent no doubt by Doctor Stewart. Discarding her stays, she wound the bandage around her chest, binding her breasts flat with practised movements. She pulled on the trousers, grateful that William was lean and she did not need to belt them in too far. The shirt and waistcoat followed – she discovered after several attempts that she possessed no skill whatsoever with a neck cloth and abandoned it, hoping it would not be noticed in the half-light. By the time she had braided her hair and wound a ribbon around it as she had seen Bush do, she was pleased with her transformation. She drew on the blue coat and shook out its folds, examining her reflection. With her hat pulled low over her face and some shadow, she might just get away with it. He would disapprove, she knew, but ultimately she hoped he would understand. She had no choice – her sense of honour demanded that she see this through.

She slid her pistols into her pocket along with powder and shot – they were smaller and easier to handle than the clumsy weapons the men used, a present from her grandfather some years ago. Briefly she wondered where the money had come from to buy them, never a consideration at the time, but deliberately turned her thoughts to other matters. She would not think of her grandfather now. Though she knew that somewhere deep inside she still loved him, she could barely equate the man who had dandled her on his knee as a child with the arrogant, foolish man she had seen in the drawing room. He had gambled away their very safety, and she would never be able to forgive him for that.

Everyone else was still in the drawing room – she could hear raised voices as she crept down the corridor. Her father and grandfather were arguing about something – her mother’s voice cut across them, begging them to stop. Anna felt a momentary pang of guilt – her mother had been through enough, she would need her support. She knew that she should be there at her side, but this was important, she had no choice. Reaching the back door, she carefully began to unbolt it, making as little noise as possible.

As she pulled back the final bolt, a hand caught her arm, startling her. It was a small hand, tightly grasping her sleeve, but what it lacked in size it more than made up for in strength. The fingers had a grip of iron.

“I think that perhaps you should tell me where you are going,” said an unfamiliar voice. It was female, heavy with a French accent – Anna glanced up, into a pale, set face, framed with dark hair that had been pulled and queued back. A face which regarded her from great brown eyes that were usually full of fear and anxiety, but now met her gaze with a calm, almost cold, expression. She couldn’t help the gasp that escaped her lips. A finger was pressed against them, and the apparition shook its head.

“Do you not agree?” asked Salomé.

***

Bush had never been in a theatre before.

Admittedly, he could not really tell that he was in one now – Kennedy had led him down a row of darkened buildings, cutting through the alleyways behind them, until he reached a particular door. A series of knocks had gained them admittance, and Bush had been ushered down a narrow, winding passageway, deep into the heart of the theatre. Now they waited in a room that appeared more to belong to a brothel: the chamber was small, and stuffy, smelling of cheap perfume and the unpleasant odour of tallow; every available inch was packed with clothing and furniture, the mirror above the cluttered dressing table almost obscured by the scarves, shawls and (he diplomatically looked away) discarded stockings.

Kennedy went immediately to a chest in the far corner, lifting an armful of dresses that seemed to have been lying there since the late 1770s, their fabric now sadly worn and faded, the lace discoloured. He threw them onto a chair and began to rummage in the chest, withdrawing fresh clothes, into which he swiftly began to change. Bush was unsure how long this stay would take – he kept glancing anxiously at his watch. He thought for a moment to sit down, but could see no chairs unencumbered by garments or piles of bound paper, so elected to remain standing by the door.

“What the hell are we doing here, Archie?” he asked eventually, when no explanation was forthcoming.

Kennedy straightened, checking the sword at his hip. He was now dressed more as Bush thought an ex-naval man should, rather than as something resembling a labourer, though his hair was a mess. Bush recalled his friend hurrying to be ready to go on watch on Renown, and how Hornblower always had to help Kennedy tie his queue. It seemed that some things had not changed. “I have one or two matters to take care of,” Kennedy said. “I cannot leave without giving my instructions.”

As he said the words, the door opened to admit an attractive middle-aged woman with laughing eyes and dark curls caught up in a rather gaudy scarf. She was wearing a dress that, while it may have been fashionable, led Bush to think that as soon as the temperature dropped she would catch her death of cold. Her gaze alighted on him, and she exclaimed, in a strident Northern accent he was sure he recognised, “Well, bless my soul, if it isn’t my poor wounded lieutenant! I am pleased to see you suffered no lasting effects from Archie’s carelessness.” She threw Kennedy a disapproving glance. “I hope you are suitably remorseful for causing a dirty great bruise to disfigure that noble brow, Archie. You look as though you’ve been in a fight, Mr B,” she added, winking at Bush.

“We both have, but I see you have little concern for me,” Kennedy replied with mock annoyance.

“Ah, but I know that you are made of Indiarubber, my dear, you always bounce back.” The woman pulled off her evening gloves, and peered at Bush. He found such close scrutiny rather disconcerting. “You’re looking rather peaky, Mr B – has Miss Maitland not been looking after you?”

“We had an encounter with du Vallon, Kitty, although Miss Maitland herself was responsible for that magnificent bruise on William’s chin,” Kennedy told her with a grin.

Kitty ignored the levity. Her face had paled. “Dear God.” The Northern accent had suddenly gone, replaced with the level tones of an educated London woman. “He got there first.”

“Sadly, yes. We have to get after him. He has the book and Horatio.” Kennedy bent to remove something else from the chest – a small leather purse which he slid quickly into his pocket. “I need you to send word to Pellew by the usual channels. Mr Bush and I will take Hotspur and do our best to catch him at sea.”

“Horatio? Oh, my poor Mr H!”

“We will get him back, ma’am,” Bush assured her.

She smiled slightly. “Oh, I have no doubt of it.” Extending a hand to him, she added, “Katherine Cobham. We have met, though you were in no position for small talk.”

At last Bush realised where he had heard her voice before. “Ah. Mrs Wakefield, I take it? I believe I must thank you for looking after Miss Maitland and myself.”

“He’s very formal, isn’t he?” Kitty asked Kennedy, who grinned again. “No need to be so straight-laced with me, Mr B. You should thank Archie for thinking quickly enough to send myself and Doctor Clive out to you – he came riding hell-for-leather to find us, worried you had broken your neck!”

“Perhaps if he had shown himself to me earlier instead it might never have happened.” It took a moment for Bush to register what she had said. “‘Doctor Clive’?” he repeated in amazement. “What - ?”

“I found the old soak trying to drink himself to death in a tavern in Dartmouth,” Kennedy said, “He went to pieces after the trial, when he realised that Sawyer was gone. Got into a drunken brawl with a couple of very important officials in Kingston and ended up being sent back to England on the first available ship. The admirals didn’t want him back in the Navy. He’s excellent at listening to tavern gossip, even when three sheets to the wind – he found du Vallon for me. And of course it has been beneficial to have my own doctor – one doesn’t just recover from a wound like mine, you know.”

“Christ,” said Bush. “Please tell me you haven’t recruited Hobbs as well.”

Kennedy laughed. “Hobbs is on a new ship, somewhere in the Mediterranean, I believe. Be easy, William, there will be no more unpleasant surprises.”

Bush turned to Kitty. “And you, ma’am? I take it that you are an actress.”

She dropped him a curtsey. “You have never seen me perform, Mr Bush?”

“Mr Bush does not allow himself to relax sufficiently to enjoy himself, Kitty,” said Kennedy with a wicked smile, “He likes nothing better than to instruct the men in the finer points of gun drill, or ensure that they are setting the sails with the utmost precision. In that he is a far better officer than I ever was.”

Bush looked at him in surprise, unsure whether to respond to the teasing or to react to the unexpected compliment. “I have never been to the theatre, ma’am,” he admitted, feeling rather embarrassed.

Kitty’s smile was almost the exact mirror of Kennedy’s. “Then that is something we must rectify in due course. I will send you some tickets for She Stoops to Conquer, Mr Bush, and you must bring Miss Maitland with you.”

“We have more pressing concerns, Kitty,” Kennedy told her. “Send word to Pellew that we have discovered one weak link in the chain. He will know what that means. And tell Clive to wait in the normal place. I may have need of him later.”

She nodded. “And you?”

“We will sail with the morning tide. Look after yourself, and be on the alert – du Vallon knows I am here.”

Bush checked his watch. “We must hurry, Mr Kennedy.”

“Very well, William. Kitty, I take it you have your carriage?”

“Yes, my coachman is waiting outside. Why?” she asked, confused.

Kennedy gave her a disarming smile. “You won’t mind if we borrow the horses, will you? Mine is not fresh, and William is in need of a mount if we are to reach Chatham with all speed.”

Kitty stared at him. “And what am I to do?”

“Take a cab, of course!” He was already out of the door.

“At this time in the morning? They will take me for a harlot!” Kitty shouted at his retreating back. Bush could not make out Kennedy’s reply. Kitty turned to him and shook her head, an affectionate smile touching her face. “He is a jackanapes, and no mistake.”

Bush gathered up his hat. “Forgive me, ma’am, but we must hurry.”

She glanced at the watch as he tucked it away. “Oh, I am pleased you received that safe and sound. She was most concerned that you have it back.”

“The watch?”

“Miss Saint Clair told me how much you valued it. She asked me to allow her to return it to you. I saw no harm in it.”

“Miss Salomé Saint Clair?” Bush frowned. “There must be some mistake – Miss Saint Clair cannot - ”

“William!” Archie’s voice drifted down the passage.

“She was most insistent about it. A present from your father, was it not? I tried to tell her that he had always intended to return it to you, but she would not listen,” said Kitty. She looked carefully into Bush’s face, evidently seeing the reaction forming there even as his brain finally made the necessary connections. The hold up on the road – the voice that had sounded familiar, the theatrical bow from the saddle, even the amusement in the man’s eyes…he should have known, but at the time the idea would have seemed worse than ludicrous. Salomé had not found the watch somewhere, picked it up from the floor; she had obtained it from the very person who had stolen it in the first place. His head was suddenly pounding again. Kitty’s voice seemed to come from a distance. “Mr Bush? Mr Bush, are you all right?”

With an effort, trying to contain the anger that was suddenly welling up within him, Bush pulled himself together. “Perfectly, ma’am, thank you. I must join Mr Kennedy.” Without another word, he turned and as she gaped after him, strode from the room.

***

“But why? Why did you not tell us?”

Salomé had taken Anna by the hand and led her out of the house. Together they ran swiftly through the burgeoning daylight, through the gate in the garden that gave access to the mews behind the house and the stables. Anna realised from her cousin’s dress that the ‘child’ Styles had seen in the hayloft had not been a child at all: in her short jacket and breeches Salomé could easily pass for a young boy, her figure childish and unformed despite her age.

“It was true that I could not speak for some time after my father’s death,” Salomé said now, hurrying from the tack room with a saddle over her arm. It was a strange sensation to finally hear her voice – it was low and measured, nothing like Anna had imagined it to be. “Eventually the power of speech returned to me, but by then there was a practical reason to continue the charade. No one noticed me – they became used to forgetting my presence in a room. I have used that to my own advantage, listening and taking note of everything.”

“But why did you not tell me? I would not have revealed your secret,” Anna told her as she fastened Melody’s girth and opened the loose box door.

“How did I know that I could trust you? We barely knew each other – you might have betrayed me. I have been working towards du Vallon’s downfall for a long time, Anna; I could afford to take no chances.”

“And now?”

The door of the other box opened, and Salomé appeared, leading Duc, much to Anna’s astonishment. The errant horse had been found by John the previous evening, nonchalantly eating his fill of the grass in Hyde Park, completely unaware that he had done anything wrong. Beside the gelding’s sixteen hands, Salomé was a diminutive figure, her head barely a few inches above his withers.

“I see that you and I wish for the same outcome. Since this is the case, the sensible course of action is for us to work together. You do not intend to let your Monsieur Bush face du Vallon alone – neither do I. My father’s death must be avenged, his murder and that of all the others du Vallon brought to the guillotine. We have all wanted nothing but this for so long…” Salomé swung herself up into Duc’s saddle with ease, not even needing the assistance of a mounting block. Under her touch he was calm – Anna had never seen the bay so docile.

Anna had deliberately saddled Melody so that she could ride astride – it had been years since she had last ridden this way, but it felt quite natural to her. She gathered the reins, and followed Salomé out of the yard. “How did you become acquainted with Mr Kennedy?” she asked.

Salomé glanced over her shoulder with a puzzled frown. “Kennedy?”

Anna bit her lip, mentally cursing herself. “Mr Devereaux. His real name is Kennedy – he is an old friend of William’s.”

“My father’s network in France put me in touch with him. We have been in contact for some time – we have been working for a common goal. And now we are very close to achieving it.” Salomé smiled. “You and I have been through so much at du Vallon’s hands, Anna. We cannot allow the men to steal our glory.”

***

“It will be a hard ride, but we should make Chatham in time,” Kennedy said, glancing up at the lightening sky. He turned, hearing Bush’s step behind him. The next thing he knew, Bush had grabbed him by the collar and thrown him against the wall. “We – William, what the hell - ?”

Bush shook him, hard, almost lifting him off the floor. His face was barely three inches from Kennedy’s. The usually calm features were twisted with fury, the cool blue eyes flashing. “It was you, wasn’t it? On the road?” Bush demanded, his breath hot on Kennedy’s face. “Wasn’t it?” The voice was still quiet, dangerously so.

“I don’t - ”

“Don’t even think about lying to me, Archie! I know it was you. How else would Salomé Saint Clair have been able to come by my watch? What the bloody hell have you been playing at?”

Kennedy tried to wriggle free, but Bush had a firm grip on his coat, and seemed to have no intention of letting go. For a relatively small man, Bush was bloody strong, and his grip was like a vice. Kennedy lifted his head, swallowing, trying to free his throat from the stranglehold on his collar. “William, listen to me, I can explain - ”

“You were laughing at us, weren’t you? Play-acting, pretending to be a highwayman! Dear God, is this all just a game to you? I thought, Christ knows why, that you were an honourable man, Kennedy! Is that all I am, some toy for you to play with as you will, some amusement to you?” Bush growled. “Allow me a little more dignity than that!”

“Mr Bush, listen to me!” Kennedy insisted, but Bush was having none of it.

“A man died, did you know that?” he asked, that relentlessly soft voice dropping almost to a whisper. “The coachman was bludgeoned over the head. He left behind six children and a pregnant wife.” He shook Kennedy so hard that his teeth rattled. “Did you know that, Archie? For the love of God, this is not a game!”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” yelled Kennedy, his face pushed right into Bush’s. At least Bush had the grace to look startled. Kennedy took the opportunity, and brought up his arms in a sudden movement, driving his forearms between Bush’s and jerking them outwards, breaking the older man’s hold on him. Before Bush could react sufficiently, Kennedy had struck out with a neat right hook, striking him under the chin and knocking him to the floor. He hit the ground heavily, and rolled over, groaning - there was blood running from his lower lip where he must have bitten it as he was hit. Kennedy stood over him, straightening his collar. “Now perhaps you will listen to me, William, and stop behaving like such a bloody pig-headed idiot!”

“Why the hell should I listen to anything you have to say?” Bush said thickly, wiping at the trickle of blood with his sleeve. Kennedy found a handkerchief in a pocket and handed it to him – Bush took it with bad grace, dabbing at his lip as he struggled into a sitting position on the cobbles. “Hiding, spying, lying to your friends…You’ll send us all to our deaths!”

“Oh, Mr Bush. Stubborn and blinkered as always.” Kennedy smiled slightly and shook his head, suddenly amused by the ludicrousness of the situation. On Renown it had taken weeks before Bush had finally come to see that which had been obvious to the rest of them for so long – no matter how often Kennedy had tried to make it plain to him that the captain was a danger to them all, Bush would not believe him until he had come to a decision in his own time. Once the decision had been made, Kennedy could not have hoped for a more loyal ally, but until then…Bush had infuriated him beyond belief, refusing to believe the evidence of his own eyes.

“Why should you listen to me?” he asked now, looking down at his friend with a mixture of exasperation and affection. “Because I saved your life, you fool, that’s why! Without me, you would have died on that beach in Amsworth. No one could have saved you. Not even Anna.”

TBC


	18. Chapter Seventeen

Bush looked up, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “No more surprises, you said!” he growled. “What the devil are you talking about?”

“On the beach – I was there, I’d been sheltering from the storm in the caves,” Kennedy told him, massaging his throat. “When I found you, you were lying in the shallows, the waves still breaking over you, your head in a pool of water. If I hadn’t pulled you out, you would have drowned, right there and then! As it was you were barely breathing when I reached you. I confess, I was rather shocked to turn over what I imagined to be a dead body washed up by the tide and find it to be a friend of mine! If you tried every bookmaker in town, you would not find one willing to give you odds on such a coincidence.”

“So then what did you do? Pull me out of the water and continue on your way?” There was a sneer on Bush’s lips, and it did not suit him. “Anna told me that I was alone on the beach when the boys found me – there was no one else to be seen.”

“Is that what you think of me, then, William? You really believe that I have become so heartless as to abandon a dying friend? Especially when that friend was by my side, held my hand while I suffered the most terrible pain I had ever known? You really think that of me? In that case, yes, Mr Bush, I walked away and left you for dead. God knows, several times down on that beach I thought that you had indeed breathed your last!” Kennedy snapped, rounding on him. He was gratified to see some of the fire leave Bush’s eyes. They were hooded, watching him carefully as he paced restlessly back and forth. Bush’s face had taken on that infuriatingly calm expression Kennedy remembered so well from Renown, that professional mask – one never knew what he might be thinking or feeling behind it. He fought down the sudden desire that flowed through him to grab Bush by the shoulders and shake him, just to force that stubborn mind to see sense. “I was so heartless that I sat with you,” Kennedy said now, voice dripping with sarcasm, “did my best to keep you warm, and wondered how the hell you came to be there. I cared so little that I actually prayed you wouldn’t die.”

There was a long pause. Bush’s eyes had dropped to the floor, suddenly unable to meet Kennedy’s gaze. Eventually, he climbed to his feet, waving away Kennedy’s attempts to help, and brushed down his clothes. Kennedy watched this performance, wary of the outcome. It had cut him to the quick to know that Bush - a man for whom, though they had initially got off on the wrong foot, he had the utmost respect, the man who had sat at his side in the prison hospital in Kingston and comforted him when the pain became unbearable - could possibly imagine that he had changed so utterly. Kennedy was not proud of the life he had been forced to lead since then, he hated the lying and cheating, and the death, the dishonourable death that dogged his footsteps. Since Kingston he had been a man with no name, with no friends, merely a dark and dangerous purpose. Watching Bush and Hornblower together, seeing how deeply they had come to value one another’s comradeship, had awoken pangs of both jealousy and regret. They had moved on, gone ahead without him. To them that exhilarating moment on the cliff top at Samanà Bay was merely a bittersweet memory, a painful reminder – to Kennedy it was a lifeline, a remembrance of better times, of triumphing over adversity. For a few, brief moments, it had been the three of them against the world, and it had felt incredible. But that was in the past, and the past was a foreign country.

“The coachman…a man is dead, Archie, you cannot deny that,” Bush said at last.

Kennedy sighed. He had to make Bush understand. “I regret his death. Of course I do. It was a hideous accident, never my intention; you must believe that I did not want anyone to be harmed. It was a mad plan - we were to have taken the book from you, spared you any danger. I wanted both of you to be far away from all of this. The ‘brigands’ were actors, men from Kitty’s theatre – one of them got carried away, struck the man too hard. I have visited the widow, given all the assistance I could. I am no murderer, William. What can I say to convince you of that?”

Bush did not reply. He stood still, tight-lipped, his face turned away.

“I could so easily have killed you earlier – but as you said yourself, I could not do it,” Kennedy reminded him. He stepped closer, circling Bush so that he could see the other man’s face. Bush’s head was bowed, his eyes in shadow. “How could I shoot down a man in cold blood who was at my side as I lay dying? I may have been many things over the past few years, William, been forced into actions I would never for a single moment considered had I been given a choice in the matter, but I pray that through it all I have managed to keep my honour. Do you honestly think that I would assist in the murder of an innocent man? Would I ever have left a man for dead? What of Santo Domingo? On the cliff - ”

“When we stood on that cliff top, we could all have been killed in an instant, whether from the explosion, the rebels, or even the fall. I have thought about those moments many times. Given the choice, I would have chosen to stand my ground, at least go down fighting rather than suffer the indignity of drowning,” Bush said softly. To Kennedy’s surprise, a low chuckle emerged from deep in his friend’s throat, the merest hint of a smile turning up one corner of Bush’s mouth. “Had it not been for the rash, idiotic and completely inexcusable actions of my two junior officers – two precocious, bumptious and reckless young fools - I would have died. I am indeed fortunate that they thought differently - they had no intention of leaving me behind. And a man who would - ”

“A man who would jump off a cliff with one who is a afraid of heights and another who cannot swim - ”

“ – is a brave man indeed. And a man who has borne incredible suffering would not prolong it in others.” Bush looked up at last and rested a hand on Kennedy’s shoulder. “It seems I owe my life to you more than once. I am sorry, Archie.”

Kennedy looked at the hand for a moment. He could sense Bush’s hesitation, his turn now to worry, to wonder at another’s reaction. The calloused fingers, roughened from so long at sea, moved upwards, made an attempt to pull Kennedy’s collar into shape. Kennedy could well remember those fingers squeezing his as another spasm of pain racked him, Bush’s hand supporting his head, his soft voice encouraging him to drink. Despite his own wound, he had been there at Kennedy’s side, offering comfort and support, even though it must have pained him greatly to do so.

“I seem to have made rather a mess of that,” Bush said sheepishly, brushing at the nap of the wool, which refused to lie flat.

Kennedy reached up and pulled his friend’s hand away. “Leave it, William. I’ll send you the bill from my tailor.”

Bush looked up, brows drawing sharply together for a moment before he realised that Kennedy was grinning. “You…” He shook his head, and, despite his best efforts to halt its progress, an answering grin crept over his own face. There was wonder in his eyes as they met Kennedy’s. “Why did you not make yourself known? In Amsworth?” he asked. “You must have realised that I would not have betrayed you. Or did you not think you could trust me?”

“You are a fool if you believe that. I was under orders – Pellew insisted that I was under no circumstances to make contact with anyone from my past, least of all you or Horatio. Especially Horatio. It would have jeopardised my position.” Kennedy sighed once more. “I have found it a difficult order to follow. Several times I had to stop myself from riding over to Whitethorn to see how you were. I was reliant upon the parson’s wife for news.”

“We would never have given you away, you know that.”

“You must forgive me – this subterfuge was not my choice. I have spent far too long alone to wish such a situation to continue, believe me.”

It was some time before Bush replied. When he did, it was with a curt nod rather than words. Without speaking, he offered a hand, and there was warmth in the pale blue eyes that had not been there before.

“Mr Kennedy.”

“Mr Bush.” Kennedy accepted the hand, to have his own shaken firmly.

“No more surprises?”

Kennedy shook his head. “Certainly not from me.”

Bush nodded once more. He glanced up at the sky, now a dull orange; the clouds dark against the glow of the rising sun. “I fear daylight’s upon us. Come, Mr Kennedy, we have a Frenchman to catch.”

A smile tugged at Kennedy’s lips. “Aye, aye, sir.”

***

It seemed that he had been working at the knots for hours.

Whoever had tied them had taken no chances, but had also evidently not considered his prisoner’s familiarity with ropes and reefs and knots of all kinds. It was taking him some time, but gradually Hornblower’s bonds were beginning to loosen. At least concentrating on the task in hand had helped to divert his attention from the pitched battle going on behind his eyes. His head felt as though it had been struck with a hammer.

His first priority was to escape – he desperately wanted to know the identity of the vessel in which he was imprisoned. From the lack of light and the cramped conditions, he guessed that his cell was in fact a storage locker. If he stretched he could touch the bulkhead with his toes. His head and shoulders were crammed uncomfortably against the opposite wall, his knees drawn up to his chin, cramping the muscles in his back and neck.

Hornblower was so intent on his task that he did not hear the door behind him open. The ropes were almost free when he felt a pressure on his wrists – he tried to lift his head, but the small space spun around him. An increase in the pressure made him gasp – his joints felt as though they would bend under the onslaught.

“Ah, Capitane Hornblower,” said du Vallon softly in his ear, “I think that it is time we had a talk.”

***

The ride from London had been long, hard and exhausting.

Kennedy led the way across country, a natural horseman and evidently used to a bruising pace, barely even stopping long enough to change horses – by the time he slid nervelessly to the ground in Chatham dockyard, Bush’s head was pounding, his shoulder throbbing as though it had been shot only the day before, and he could hardly stop his legs from shaking enough to stumble away from his steed. The horses themselves were spent, steam rising from their heaving flanks. He thrust the reins into the hands of a nearby marine and hurried after Kennedy, somehow finding the effort to put one foot in front of the other.

It was a blessed relief to finally see Hotspur, anchored at the jetty, men still scurrying round her. As they approached, Orrock and Prowse appeared at the rail, the marine guard snapping to attention. They saluted smartly as Bush managed to heave himself through the entry port, forcing himself to stand upright and at least attempt to look like their commanding officer, even if he was tired, hot and bedraggled, covered in dust and mud from the journey.

“Get us under way, if you please, Mr Prowse,” he said as they trailed up to the quarterdeck in his wake.

“We’ll be lucky if we catch the tide, sir,” the master pointed out with his usual optimism.

“Not if we get under way now, Mr Prowse,” Bush snapped. Prowse opened his mouth to protest, but Bush forestalled him, turning to the rail and bellowing, “Hands to stations for weighing anchor! Man the capstan!”

Immediately Matthews’s whistle shrilled through the air. The men remaining on the jetty scrambled aboard. Mooring ropes were loosened and gathered in. Bush left Prowse to continue, and walked carefully to the starboard rail. Kennedy and Orrock followed; the former keeping his round hat pulled low over his face.

“Where is the captain, Mr Bush?” Orrock asked hesitantly, after spending some moments evidently deliberating whether to broach the subject. Bush had kept the message he had sent via Matthews deliberately vague.

“Missing, Mr Orrock,” Bush replied. He inclined his head towards Kennedy, who briefly touched his hat. “This is Mr Devereaux, from the…government. He has his orders, and we are to give him every assistance. We have every intention of getting the captain back.”

Orrock nodded. “Aye, aye, sir. I mean, captain.”

Bush raised an eyebrow. He had never before been addressed as ‘captain’, even on the rare occasion when he had been required to command a prize vessel. The word produced a strange mix of emotions, strongest of which was a disturbing feeling of quiet satisfaction, which he instantly banished. If and when he eventually gained the right to be addressed in such a manner, he wanted it to be on his own merits, not merely as a stop-gap, a courtesy in the absence of another, and certainly not due to the misfortune of the rightful holder of the title. Memories of Buckland on the Renown, struggling to cope with having a command so suddenly thrust upon him, returned with unwelcome clarity. Bush was a stronger man than Buckland, but one could never tell how events would transpire.

“Carry on, Mr Orrock,” he said now. “As soon as we have negotiated the Medway, you and Mr Prowse are to report to me. You may leave the deck to Mr Carman.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Mr Prowse?”

Prowse turned; his glass already in his hand. “Sir?”

Bush glanced out at the horizon. “Plot a course for Brest.”

***

It had been almost absurdly easy to sneak on board the Hotspur.

The men were busy with loading last-minute supplies, shouting to each other as barrels were hoisted from the jetty, sacks and boxes carried aboard. Earlier Anna and Salomé had seen a small, rotund man in a horsehair wig and a cocked hat arguing with a spare, thin individual in naval uniform who could only have been an official of some kind. “I’ve had my orders, superintendent,” the man in the wig said shortly, clearly at the end of his patience, “sail with the first tide. We’ve been waiting two hours for the water!”

“I can assure you that my men are working as quickly as possible, Mr Prowse,” the superintendent replied, shuffling the papers in the leather wallet he carried, “You will have your water within the hour, though I cannot promise that my men will have it loaded in that time. You will just have to wait.”

“I can assure you, sir, you don’t want to be anywhere near when Mr Bush gets back if that’s the case,” said Prowse, “Orders from the admiral himself, that’s what I’ve been told. And Mr Bush is very particular.”

The superintendent blanched slightly. “Lieutenant Bush?”

“Aye, sir.” Prowse was smiling slightly. “Do you know Mr Bush, then?”

“We have met.” The superintendent huffed uncomfortably, shuffled his papers again, and straightened. “Perhaps it may be possible to speed things along, Mr Prowse. If you were to send some of your men…?”

“Thank you, sir. They’ll be along directly.” Prowse’s smile broke into a grin as he watched the man walk away. Turning back to the activity on the jetty, something caught his attention and he shouted, “Handsomely there! Belay that, Hopkins! Did you hear me, man? Belay!”

Anna had wondered how on earth they were going to get aboard with no one noticing them, but Hopkins’s evident incompetence when hoisting some unidentified packages onto the deck gave them an opportunity. Prowse was loudly berating the man, much to the amusement of some of the other sailors, particularly Styles, who Anna could see leaning over the rail, a broad grin on his face. It seemed that this was something of a regular occurrence.

“Come on,” Salomé hissed, pointing to a stretch of rail towards the stern that appeared currently unoccupied – the attention of almost everyone was on either Prowse or the supplies. No one appeared to notice as Salomé scrambled up the side of the ship with the agility of a monkey, pulling herself onto the deck. She reached down to Anna, who found it much more difficult to locate footholds at a distance from the more conventional point of entry. With an effort, she caught hold of Salomé’s outstretched hand, dragging herself up the last couple of feet and over the rail, glancing behind her to check that she had not been seen. Below them Prowse was still bellowing at the hapless Hopkins.

For some time they hid under a tarpaulin in one of the ship’s boats, Salomé occasionally risking a glance from beneath the fabric to see what was happening on deck. Once she was sure that the majority of the stores had been loaded and the deck had cleared, she led the way down the steps to what could only be the gun deck. Anna had been barely conscious when last aboard Hotspur, but there was no mistaking the guns lined up like sentries along either side of the deck – this was William’s territory. She could just imagine him here, amidst the smoke and noise, calm under fire.

The two of them were crouched under the companionway when he came aboard, hidden in the shadows and denied an opportunity to sneak further below by the men who milled about the deck. Anna listened to him talking to Prowse, smiling at the authority in his voice. For once he was not in the shadow of Hornblower, and though she deplored Horatio’s current situation, praying fervently that he was safe, she could not help but be glad that Bush was being allowed his chance to take command.

Within moments of his arrival, the ship was plunged into activity, whistles rising over the tumult of shouted orders, the rigging creaking as the men swarmed aloft to loose the sails. Anna and Salomé crouched in their corner, watching the organised bustle around them. The whole process was accomplished with the utmost precision, everything running like carefully oiled clockwork.

At length, when the whistles and commands had died away, there were footsteps on the ladder above them, footsteps Anna recognised, though they seemed unusually hesitant. She dared to peek from her hiding place, and could see Bush coming down the steps. His formerly immaculate uniform was liberally spattered with mud, and his face was tired and drawn, reminding her that it was less than twenty four hours since his fall in the park. So much had happened since then – could it really have been such a short time ago?

Bush stumbled on the ladder, his foot slipping – he grabbed desperately for the rope that served as a handrail, but could not find it. Anna was already halfway out of the shadows towards him when Salomé grabbed her coat, glaring at her in alarm. Anna would have slapped her hand away, but before she could she realised that Styles had appeared almost from nowhere and caught Bush before he could take a nasty tumble onto the deck below.

“Are you all right, sir?” the big man asked, looking at his lieutenant in open concern.

Bush nodded, blinking rapidly. “Perfectly, thank you, Styles.” He had evidently expected the words to sound convincing, but Styles was not taken in. Neither was Anna. Bush did not look well. He should have been resting, not having to take on a chase across the Channel.

“It’s all right, Styles,” said a new voice, light and bearing a faint Scottish accent. Someone else came down the companionway, and it took Anna a moment to recognise Kennedy – unlike earlier, he was dressed smartly, in the clothes of a man about town, his hat low over his face and casting his features into shadow. “I’ll look after him from here.”

Styles nodded, and Bush allowed Kennedy, a hand on his elbow, to steer him towards the rear of the deck. As they went, the big man watched them, a frown on his scarred face.

***

“Sit down, William.”

Kennedy guided Bush to the chair behind Hornblower’s desk. Bush was only too glad to sink into it – he leaned forwards, elbows resting on the desk, head in his hands. He could hear a clinking as Kennedy fussed over something on the sideboard – a moment later a glass was being pressed into his hand.

“Drink this,” Kennedy said in a tone that brooked no argument. Bush did, taking it without glancing at the contents, and only realising when the fiery liquid burned his throat that he had been handed a glass of brandy. He coughed, the unexpected burning sensation choking him – Kennedy slapped him hard on the back, and after what seemed like an eternity the fit subsided. “Better?” Kennedy asked innocently.

“No!” Bush gasped, wondering whether his vocal chords had survived the onslaught.

“Well, you seem more alert.”

“I feel terrible - even more so now that half my throat has been scorched!”

“The lump on the side of your head would account for that.” Kennedy regarded him thoughtfully, head on one side. “It looks painful – about the size of a bird’s egg, I should say.”

Bush coughed again, and sank back in the chair. “Well, you should know, being the cause of it.” He felt drained; all his remaining energy seemed to be seeping from him as he sat there. Resting his head on one hand, he let his eyes drop closed. He would have been quite content to stay there, to never have to move again – to be honest, he wasn’t sure that just at that moment he would have been capable of movement. His limbs seemed to have turned to lead.

Kennedy took the glass from him before it could fall from his slackened grip. “I think that you should get some rest,” he said, the teasing tone replaced by one of concern. “Should I get the surgeon to look at you?”

With an effort, Bush shook his head. “I’ve had quite enough of damned doctors. I’ll be fine - just leave me to sleep.”

Kennedy made a non-committal noise. “I’m not sure. You don’t - ” He was interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Come!” Bush called wearily. The door opened and Orrock’s head appeared – behind him stood Prowse, hat in hand. “Yes, Mr Orrock?”

The young Irishman’s expression was anxious, but he quickly became professional when Bush sat up straight and regarded him with as much authority as he could muster. “You wanted to see us, sir?”

Damn it, Bush had forgotten that he had asked them to report to him. The rest he was so desperate for would have to wait a little longer. “Of course,” he said, waving them inside. Kennedy shut the door, leaning on it. Bush looked at Orrock and Prowse seriously – it had taken him some time to decide that, if they were to stand any chance of catching du Vallon, he would have to take his officers into his confidence. “What I am about to tell you must go no further than these walls, is that understood?”

Prowse and Orrock exchanged a glance.

“It is, sir,” Orrock said swiftly. “You can depend on us.”

Bush looked at the master. “Mr Prowse?”

Prowse cleared his throat. “Of course, sir. No further, understood.”

“Good.” Bush nodded, wishing that the cannon being fired inside his head would run out of shot. He tried not to wince, and, clasping his hands on the desk before him, began to tell Orrock and Prowse exactly what had been happening.

TBC


	19. Chapter Eighteen

“And that is the situation as it stands, gentlemen. We must recover the captain and the book with all speed. If du Vallon makes it to France, he will disappear, and the consequences will be disastrous for England.” Bush looked up at Prowse and Orrock as they stood before the desk, carefully gauging their reactions. “I’m sure I can rely on you to keep this information to yourselves. We cannot risk a breach of national security.”

“You can count on us, sir,” Orrock said confidently. “We’ll get the book back. And the captain.” Prowse just shot him a sceptical glance, but said nothing.

“Very well. Send Mr Carman aloft with his glass – he is to report anything out of the ordinary. Dismissed, gentlemen.”

They saluted and withdrew. Once the door had shut behind them, Bush pressed a hand to his eyes, visibly drooping in the chair. He looked utterly spent, his face pale and dark circles of fatigue rimming his reddened lids. Kennedy cursed himself for dragging him on a hell-for-leather gallop across country when he should have been abed, but there had been no alternative. Without Bush, he would have had no legitimate access to Hotspur, and the ship was absolutely vital if his mission was to be completed.

“Come,” he said now, knowing that Bush would never admit outright that he needed help. He took his friend by the elbow and all but lifted him out of the chair – Bush barely reacted as he was led to Hornblower’s cot. Kennedy divested him of his jacket and shoes, and Bush was only too grateful to lie down, a relieved groan escaping him as his head touched the pillow.

Kennedy soaked a handkerchief in the basin on the washstand and gently laid it over the good-sized lump behind Bush’s left ear – Bush started from the chill, but some of the pain left his face as the compress began to give some measure of relief. Drawing a blanket over him, Kennedy made a mental note to have the Hotspur’s surgeon look at Bush at the earliest opportunity, just to be safe.

“Get some sleep – I’m sure I can look after things in the meantime,” he said, but received no reply – Bush was already too far down that road to answer. He relaxed as sleep claimed him, one hand trailing over the side of the cot. Satisfied, Kennedy turned away. It was time he started looking to his own orders.

***

“Matty? You there?”

Matthews straightened from the coils of rope and blocks he was tidying away. “Hello?” Styles appeared, silhouetted against the bright sunlight from the waist. “Oh, it’s you. Somethin’ the matter, or has Mr Bush decided to risk your cooking?”

Styles pulled a ‘ha ha’ face. “That bloke who came aboard wi’ Mr Bush – did you get a good look at ‘im?” he asked.

“Not really. His hat were pulled down over his face. Odd, that. Must be one of these who won’t let the sun get at their skin. Unnatural, I call it,” Matthews mused, continuing with his work. Styles hovered behind him, glancing over his shoulder as though expecting someone to be listening.

“There’s somethin’ familiar about ‘im. I’m sure I’ve seen ‘im before somewhere,” he said. “What did Mr Bush say ‘is name was?”

“Devereaux. He’s from the government.”

Styles frowned. “Don’t that strike you as strange? Since when did government officials start commandeerin’ ships? I don’t like it, Matty. Don’t like the smell of it.”

Matthews rolled his eyes. “Saints preserve us from Styles’s soothsayin’! I would’ve thought you’d learnt your lesson, mate.”

“I were just sayin’ - ” Styles began, but the bos’n cut him off.

 

 

“I know what you were just sayin’, and I’m now tellin’ you to stow it, Styles,” Matthews told him seriously. “If Mr Bush hears you talkin’ like that you’ll be for it.”

“Mr Bush ain’t fit for duty. You should see ‘im - ‘e’d ‘ave fallen down the steps if I ‘adn’t caught ‘im in time. With the captain God knows where an’ Mr Bush keelin’ over every five minutes, we’re sailin’ into trouble, you mark my words.”

“Stow it, Styles!” said Matthews. He had to nip this in the bud before Styles had the whole ship unsettled. It had been bad enough last time. “’Ow many times do I ‘ave to tell yer? And leave that Mr Devereaux be. ‘E’s got a job to do, same as us.” He turned back to the ropes, bending down to coil them away. Without looking over his shoulder, he could sense that Styles was still there, hovering just behind him. Matthews pretended not to see him, whistling to himself as he worked. If he ignored him for long enough, he knew from experience that Styles would eventually get fed up and leave.

This time, however, was different. Styles evidently had something on his mind, as, at length, when he realised he would get no prompting from Matthews, he said, “That Devereaux – Mr Bush knows ‘im.”

Matthews deliberately didn’t turn round. “You what?”

“’E ain’t not government official. Mr Bush knows ‘im,” Styles repeated. “You should’ve seen ‘ow Mr Devereaux took Mr Bush off to the captain’s cabin when ‘e nearly fell earlier – no stranger would’ve be’aved the way ‘e did, all full of concern and takin’ care of ‘im. They know each other, Matty; I’ll lay everything I’ve got on it.”

“You ain’t got nothin’ to bet, Styles,” Matthews told him, shaking his head.

“You can scoff, but I still think we’re cursed from ‘avin’ those Frenchies aboard,” Styles muttered. Matthews could feel his friend’s glare boring into the back of his head. He sighed inwardly. “This right peculiar bloke from the government turning up, Mr Bush tryin’ to run the ship when anyone wi’ ‘alf an eye can see ‘e should be in bed, and now things’ve started goin’ missin’ from the galley! We’re cursed!”

“What things’ve been goin’ missin from the galley?” Matthews asked sharply. If things were disappearing, then someone must be taking them, and the penalty for theft was one of the most severe in the Articles of War.

“I put a loaf of bread out on the block – when I came back two minutes later, it were gone! No one went in there; I would’ve seen ‘em. I think we’re ‘aunted!”

“’Aunted?” Matthews couldn’t help laughing. “In broad daylight? I think we might’ve noticed a ghost on board. Must’ve been a rat.”

“Bloody big rat to climb up onto the table in the galley and make off wi’ an ‘ole loaf.” Styles narrowed his eyes. “You’re not takin’ me seriously, are you?”

Matthews shook his head again. “What d’you expect? Come on, Styles - ”

But Styles, disgruntled, was already leaving. “You’ll be sorry when I’m proved right, mate,” he said, “You all will.” And with that he was gone, leaving Matthews to stare open-mouthed after him.

***

Hornblower stared up at du Vallon.

“I cannot imagine anything I wish to discuss with you, colonel. You have the book – what more can you want from me?”

“A great deal, as it happens.” Du Vallon had at last removed the heel of his boot from Hornblower’s wrists, though not without breaking as least one bone, Horatio was sure. There was a burning pain in one of his hands, as though a red hot needle had been inserted beneath the skin. The colonel took up a stance just inside the tiny room, leaning against the wall. There was barely enough room for both of them with the door shut – it was clear that du Vallon did not wish to be overheard. Hornblower did not miss the long blade stuck into the Frenchman’s belt. “I may have the book – and I owe you my thanks for that, capitane, seldom has a mission been accomplished so swiftly – but there is more information I must have before I am done.”

“I’m sure that I am the last person to be able to assist you, colonel,” said Hornblower, raising his chin as defiantly as he could, given the throbbing ache in his head. “I do not even know the contents of the book.”

“The book is useless without the correct key. Monsieur Devereaux, the man who devised the code, chose a key suitably obscure. So obscure, in fact, that he revealed its source to no one but Lambért, and even then in a very oblique way. It has come to my attention that Devereaux is in fact a British spy, a fact I would have been able to tell immediately, but which Lambért failed to realise. Devereaux is also,” du Vallon added, pausing deliberately for effect, “an associate of yours, capitane.”

Hornblower frowned. “I can assure you, colonel, I do not make a habit of consorting with spies, British or otherwise.”

“Now, this is strange.” Du Vallon glanced down at the knife, then back at Hornblower. There was a deeply unpleasant gleam in his eye. “I have been led to believe – and I have spies of my own, Monsieur Hornblower – that the key is even now on board your ship. I have seen Devereaux, at the home of the marquis, and he was on most favourable terms with your Lieutenant Bush. One of my men has thoroughly questioned one of those helping him. The key, a particular English book, is aboard the Hotspur.”

“You are mistaken, colonel.” Hornblower tried to conceal his alarm at this news. Who the hell could this ‘Devereaux’ be? The pain in his head was fuddling his brain – at that moment he couldn’t imagine.

Du Vallon smiled. “We shall see, capitane, we shall see. At present we are sailing towards Brest, to rendezvous with La Liberté – I have no doubt that your faithful Monsieur Bush will not be far behind. And then, capitane, we shall see what secrets the Hotspur holds.”

***

Anna crouched in the shadows of Hotspur’s hold.

She and Salomé had crept below decks when the ship had cleared the Medway and was out in the open sea, the crew easier to dodge when going about their usual routine. It was dark down here, and full of corners in which to hide, amongst the stores. Salomé, after having explained in no uncertain terms that for Anna to even sneak into the captain’s cabin to see for herself that Bush was all right would severely compromise their position, had hurried away, leaving Anna here, tucked away behind a cluster of water barrels. Anna could not see that to merely check on William would make much difference – even if he were to see her he would hardly turn the ship around and return her immediately to Chatham, but Salomé was adamant: they must not be discovered. Anna could not honestly believe that Bush would have them put over the side, but for now she obeyed her cousin’s orders. There was a knot of worry in her stomach that had lodged there on seeing the exhausted state that Bush was in, and it had only tightened the longer she had to wait before she could assure herself that he was all right. He would be angry that she had sneaked aboard and put herself in danger, but she was willing to risk that. She could not bear to see any harm come to him.

But there was little she could do skulking in the bowels of the ship. From her cramped hiding place, Anna could hear the waves against the Hotspur’s hull as she broke through the water, evidently running at a fair pace with the wind behind her. The weather had been changing, the breeze freshening, as Anna and Salomé arrived in Chatham, the sky clouding over with the promise of rain to come.

Salomé. Anna was unsure what to make of her cousin. It was almost impossible to reconcile the capable, almost ruthless woman who had dragged her aboard the ship with the timid, mouse-like girl she had known. Salomé had put up such a convincing pretence of nervousness and suffering that she had taken everyone in, her haunted brown eyes drawing sympathy and support, and evidently awakening chivalrous instincts in Bush, a circumstance with which Anna could not feel comfortable. William had been angered at Salomé’s plight, been kind to her, and yet she had apparently used him, played him as she had them all. If there was one thing that made Anna particularly furious, it was being taken for a fool. It was clear to her that Salomé had a hidden agenda – she needed to be aboard Hotspur for more than just a chance to get at du Vallon. For now, Anna would sit and wait. For now, but not for too long.

There was a scuffle from somewhere up ahead. Anna risked a cautious glance over the barrels to see her cousin tiptoeing towards her, the pockets of her coat bulging. Salomé sat down heavily beside Anna, and to her amazement withdrew a loaf of bread and a bottle of something Anna did not quite like to guess at. Breaking the loaf in two, Salomé pushed half into Anna’s hand and began to tear at the other with her teeth. “Eat,” she said around the bread, “It may be some time before food next becomes available.”

“Where did you get this?” Anna demanded.

Salomé took a swig from the bottle and wiped her mouth with her hand. She offered it to Anna, who ignored the gesture. With an impatient sigh, Salomé said, “I took it from the galley, where it had been left in plain sight of anyone. I do not think the cook is too clever. He will not miss one small loaf. Eat – you will be glad of it later.”

“Salomé, this is stealing!” Anna hissed. “And, what is worse, stealing from William’s ship!”

Her cousin shrugged. “He will never know.”

“All the stores will be accounted for – it will be discovered. Some poor man may be flogged for your crime!”

Salomé’s dark eyes flashed. “A small price to pay for the death of a man guilty of so many murders.”

“I will not allow you to treat others in so cavalier a fashion.” Anna scrambled to her feet.

“What do you intend to do? Anna, come back!” Salomé called, but Anna was already walking away, bending low so as to not hit her head on the beams. “Peut la prise de diable vous!

Where are you going?”

Anna did not look back. “To put this back where it belongs, and save some innocent seaman the cat. No matter what our intentions, cousin, some of us still have principles.”

***

“The glass is dropping.”

“We’ll have a storm before long, sir, you mark my words,” Prowse said gloomily. He glanced up at the grey sky. “Wind’s freshening from the north-east.”

“That at least is in our favour,” Kennedy remarked. He had spent the last few hours on deck, pacing back and forth, a telescope from the rack in his hand. It felt quite strange to be back aboard ship, to be standing on a quarterdeck once more. He had not thought to be in such a position again. Hotspur was out in the open sea now, but beating a course round the south-eastern coast of England and down the Channel towards Brest. Du Vallon and his associates had been based on the northern coast of France, in the small fishing villages between Dieppe and Le Havre. Kennedy was sure that du Vallon would be returning to familiar ground – from there Paris was within a reasonable distance, and he could not believe that the colonel would waste any time in delivering his prizes to his emperor. The names in that innocuous-looking journal would be of great interest to Bonaparte. Du Vallon could not have had so great a start on them – sooner or later they must catch up with him, Kennedy was certain. “Mr Prowse,” he said, and the master turned to look at him.

“Sir?”

“Set a course south by south-west, if you please. If we are to catch our quarry we will have to hug the coast. There will be little chance of spotting him in the middle of the Channel.”

Prowse looked surprised at the order, and the professional tone in which it was given. It may have been some time since Kennedy had been on a quarterdeck, but old habits died hard, and the familiar routine was difficult to shake off. “Sir, any change of course must be approved by the captain,” the master pointed out.

“I have my orders from the admiral, Mr Prowse, and I have nominal command here. I would not want to step on Mr Bush’s toes, but in his absence I have taken the decision and would request that you alter course,” Kennedy said pleasantly. “If you were to stop prevaricating, our mission would be accomplished all the quicker.”

Prowse did not look happy. “All the same, sir, I have my orders, and the captain must be informed of any alteration in course.”

Kennedy tried to hide his impatience, inwardly rolling his eyes. “Very well. Mr Orrock, will you please inform Mr Bush that I have requested Mr Prowse to alter course south by south-west? And convey to him my apologies for disturbing his sleep.”

The Irishman touched his hat. “Aye, aye, sir,” he said, casting Kennedy a curious look, and went below. Kennedy turned back to the rail, and lifted the glass to his eye once more.

***

Anna’s heart was thumping in her chest so loudly that she was sure everyone aboard must be able to hear it.

It had taken her some time to locate the galley and to slip inside without being spotted. She had been able to see Kennedy and the officers on the quarterdeck, but was fortunate that they were in conversation and all had their backs to her. There was no sign of Bush, a circumstance for which she was not sure whether to feel thankful or worried. The ordinary seamen were harder to avoid, however, and she spent some time crouched under the companionway once more, her heart hammering in her ears, certain that she would be discovered at any moment.

Eventually, she seized an opportunity that presented itself, narrowly avoiding Matthews as he emerged on the maindeck from below, and ducked inside, swiftly concealing herself behind the stove. The galley was empty, though food was evidently being prepared – vegetables were spread across a chopping block, as though the cook were in the middle of preparing a stew. A rather large knife was resting beside the block, and a pan full of water sat on the stove, gradually coming to the boil. Anna decided that discretion was the better part of valour – she pulled the remains of the loaf from her pocket, wishing that she was returning it intact, and slipped it onto the table, turning away to leave as quickly as she had come.

As her hand left the bread, the roof of the galley suddenly tilted overhead – Anna bit back a cry as she was grabbed from behind, a powerful arm clamped tightly across her chest, dragging her away from the table. She struggled, but her assailant’s other arm wrapped around her neck in a stranglehold. She was all but lifted off her feet, legs kicking helplessly in mid-air.

“Right,” said a familiar voice in her ear, “I’ll ‘ave you, you thievin’ little bastard!”

Anna tried desperately to gasp a response – Styles was cutting off her airway. Her chest was tightening, her lungs beginning to burn. “Styles…” she gagged, choking, “…Styles, it’s…it’s…me!”

“What?” The grip loosened, just a fraction.

“It’s…me! For God’s sake…let…go!”

In a moment, the pressure on her throat was released, and she gratefully gulped down air. She doubled over, her chest heaving as she struggled to draw breath. Eventually she looked up to see Styles staring at her in horror.

“Bloody ‘ell – Miss Anna!” he exclaimed. “’Ow…what’re you doin’ aboard? Does Mr Bush - ”

“No, he doesn’t and please keep your voice down, Styles,” Anna told him hoarsely. “I don’t want him to know, not yet.”

“Christ. I could’ve killed you! I thought someone were stealin’ bread.”

They were, Anna thought, but didn’t say so. It was bad enough that someone now knew she was aboard – it wouldn’t do to reveal Salomé’s presence as well, however much she might have liked to see her duplicitous and confident cousin on the receiving end of Styles’s wrath. “Will you promise me that you won’t breathe a word to a soul, that you won’t even tell Matthews that you’ve seen me?” she asked. “I wouldn’t ask unless it was important, Styles. If Mr Bush knew I was here he would be furious.”

“Aye, ‘e would, too,” Styles agreed. “But it’s madness, miss. If we catch that French colonel, there’ll be fightin’, and - ”

“That’s precisely what I have been expecting. Du Vallon will never go easily. You’ve seen me fight before, Styles, I can handle myself. I don’t want Mr Bush worrying about me.”

Styles shook his head, his battered face concerned. “I reckon ‘e’d be right, miss. I wouldn’t want no girl o’ mine in the middle of a battle.”

“Perhaps, but I am still my own woman, and I will decide what I wish to do,” Anna said, straightening. It was becoming clear, much to her annoyance, that she was already being thought of as less a person in her own right and more an extension of Bush. She was, and always had been, independent, and it irked to her to think that at sometime in the near future she might be expected to give all that up. “Will you promise me that you will not tell Mr Bush that I am on board?”

“I don’t know, miss.” Styles looked torn. “If ‘e finds out I’ve been lyin’ to ‘im…”

“There will be no need to lie. It’s hardly likely that such a subject will arise – he has no suspicion that I might be aboard, so I very much doubt if he will ask. Please, Styles – it is vital that we catch du Vallon. William does not need me as a distraction.”

There was a long pause, during which Styles appeared to be battling with himself. Anna knew that the big man was loyal to Bush, but she hoped that, after everything had happened over the past few months, she might be able to count on some of Styles’s support too.

She was not wrong. Eventually, Styles nodded. “Aye, miss, I promise. I won’t tell no one.”

“Thank you.” Anna glanced over her shoulder, hearing footsteps approaching the galley. “I must go.”

“I’ll try to get some food down to yer,” the big man said, and she smiled her thanks. “And if Mr Bush should ask? About you, miss?”

Anna paused in the doorway. “We’ll cross that bridge, Styles, when we come to it, and not before.”

***

“Mr Bush? Mr Bush, sir!”

Bush groaned, rudely awakened from the blissful repose he had been desperately craving. It barely seemed five minutes since had closed his eyes – reluctantly he opened them, and stared around in confusion for some moments before he realised that the unfamiliar surroundings were due to the fact that he was lying in Hornblower’s cot instead of his own. The events of the past twenty-four hours came flooding back, and he groaned again. His whole body felt stiff and sore from the bruising ride earlier that day – he tried to sit up and swore as what felt like every muscle he possessed screamed in protest. Ignoring them, he dragged himself from the cot, grateful that at least the pounding in his head seemed to have eased. Or at least he had thought so – a sudden knocking made him think for a moment that maybe he had given thanks for a clear head too soon, before he realised that the sound was in fact someone tapping on the cabin door.

“Who’s there?” he called out, getting to his feet and tentatively feeling the wound in his shoulder. Fortunately it did not feel quite as painful as it had done, despite the punishment it had received that morning.

“It’s Orrock, sir. Mr Devereaux sent me to inform you that he wishes to alter course, sir.”

Bush’s first instinct was to demand why Kennedy had taken upon himself to give orders on a ship of which he was not even a member of the crew, let alone a commissioned officer, but he bit it back just in time. Kennedy might be an officer of the king no longer, but he had Pellew’s orders in his pocket, and Bush knew that he had little choice but to obey them. He crossed to the door and opened it.

Orrock, to his credit, was a model of discretion, apparently not noticing the sight that Bush knew he must look, with his uniform still liberally splattered with mud and his sleep-tousled hair escaping from its queue. “Sorry to disturb you, sir – Mr Devereaux sends his apologies. He has the idea of hugging the coast, sir, and to do that Mr Prowse will need your permission to alter course south by south west,” Orrock said.

Kennedy was right, damn him – he knew du Vallon’s habits, far better than Bush ever could imagine them. It made perfect sense that du Vallon would be taking the book back to France to deliver into the hands of his masters. “Very well, Mr Orrock, tell Mr Prowse to alter course. I shall be on deck directly.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Orrock smartly turned on his heel and left the cabin.

Bush sighed, and ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it even more. He needed a wash, a shave and a change of clothes before he would even begin to feel remotely human again. With this aim in mind, he decided that a visit to his own cabin was in order. As he left, the novelty of the sentry outside snapping to attention as he passed drew a smile, hastily smothered before anyone could see it. Annoyed with himself, he schooled his features into practised indifference, and went below. He was not going to take pleasure from this sorry situation, not even for a moment.

Before he even opened the door, he was aware that his cabin was not empty as it should be. A noise from within, a muffled curse and a thud as something landed on the deck – Bush was immediately on his guard, feeling for his sword. Cautiously, he turned the handle, slowly pushing the door open…

“William!” Kennedy looked up; eyes wide like those of a startled rabbit. “What are you doing here?”

”I should be asking you that question – this is my cabin!” Bush said, gazing around in amazement. His sea chest was open, his belongings in an untidy heap on the floor, Kennedy caught in the act of rifling through it. “What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?”

Kennedy’s eyes were fixed on the drawn sword in Bush’s hand. “William, put the weapon down.”

“Why, am I likely to need to run you through?” Bush raised an eyebrow. “Has it come to this, Archie? You cannot even ask me for something, you have to steal it from under my very nose?”

“I had to make sure that you still had it. Was it not aboard, there would have been little point in my even mentioning its importance.”

Bush sighed impatiently. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Make sure I still had what?”

“This.” Kennedy held up a small, worn book bound in brown leather. The pages were discoloured, the binding cracked and broken, the gilt lettering of the title embossed on the cover barely legible. Bush had not looked at that book for some time, not since he had packed up his chest to leave Renown, to return home to peace and unemployment. It had remained at the bottom of the chest, clothes and other belongings thrown in on top all but forgotten about for months. And now it was once more in the hands of its owner. “You kept it,” Kennedy said, with a half smile. “I am pleased.”

“Did you expect me to throw away a gift from a dying friend? I promised to keep it for you, did I not?” Bush asked. “If you wanted it back so badly, you had only to ask and I would have given it willingly.”

Kennedy shook his head. “I’ve not been searching for this book for purely sentimental reasons, William.”

Bush frowned, hopelessly confused once again. “Then why?”

Kennedy stood up, and crossed to Bush’s side, the book grasped tightly in his hand, as though if he loosened his grip it might disappear. “This, William, is the other half of the prize du Vallon and I have been seeking. This is the final piece of the puzzle.”

“That? You mean that book is - ”

“Yes.” Kennedy grinned. “This is the key to the code, Mr Bush, and you have had it all along.”

TBC


	20. Interlude

Kingston, January 1802

 

Racking coughs broke the silence of the prison hospital.

Bush groaned, jolted out of the light sleep into which the heat and the pain from his healing wound had finally allowed him to slip. Carefully, he raised his head a little, squinting into the darkness. In the faint sliver of moonlight that fell through the tiny, high barred window, he could just make out the adjacent bed, and the twisted form upon it.

“Mr Kennedy?” he called softly. His only answer was another cough. “Archie?” There was a gurgling sound, two more coughs, and then silence.

Bush propped himself up further in the bed, wincing as the stitches holding the gash across his stomach closed tugged, making his head swim. He tried to see his fellow lieutenant, but could discern very little from this distance. He raised his voice a little. “Mr Kennedy?” No reply. Damn. There was nothing for it – he would have to get up. Gritting his teeth, he rolled sideways, the only way he could rise from the bed without almost passing out. He caught just in time the shout that welled in his throat as he landed heavily on his knees on the stone floor. Hanging onto the bedstead, he hauled himself upright and managed to stagger the few feet to Kennedy’s cot.

The younger man’s breathing was laboured, harsh in the quiet of the cell. “Mr Bush…” he said, opening his eyes, “…you should not…be out of bed…”

“Nevertheless, here I am. You are restless, Mr Kennedy.” Bush sat down on the edge of the bed, wiping with his sleeve at the sweat that was running down his forehead. It would be some time before he healed, if simply making the effort of getting up could make him feel so drained. But at least he was healing. He would get better, return to England with Renown…that was, if he made it through the next few days. The shadow of the noose was still hanging over them all, but Kennedy might escape it, though not from declared innocence or valour.

“Almost impossible to sleep…in this…damned heat,” Kennedy said. There was pain etched into every line of his face, lines that should never have graced so young a man. His skin was grey, his features haggard. Bush risked a glance and saw that there was fresh blood on the bandage that swathed Kennedy’s chest. Dear God…how long did the boy have left?

“Is there anything I can do?” As soon as the words left his mouth, Bush realised how trite they sounded.

Kennedy nodded, glancing to his left. “Some…water?”

Bush could just see the earthenware jug sitting on the table between the beds. Reaching for it involved resorting to his knees once again. He slid a hand under Kennedy’s head, tipping the cup towards his lips. Kennedy drank gratefully, gasping as Bush laid him back on the pillow.

“Better?”

“Yes…thank you.” Kennedy’s eyes wavered for a moment before settling on Bush. “You have a very…gentle touch, Mr Bush. I would never have…thought nursing to be…one of your accomplishments.”

Bush smiled slightly. “Perhaps I should ask Doctor Clive if he requires my services as a loblolly boy.”

The comment evidently amused Kennedy, as he began to laugh, an action which quickly turned into a coughing fit. Bush unsure what to do for the best, helped the younger man to sit up a little, supporting him under the shoulders. Panic started to flare within him as Kennedy struggled to breathe – he was on the verge of yelling for help when Kennedy swallowed, almost seemed to choke, and then fell quiet, the fit apparently over.

“Should I call for the doctor?” Bush asked anxiously.

Kennedy shook his head. “No…point. I’m a dead man.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I admire your…optimism, Mr Bush, but…I know I don’t have long…left.” Kennedy looked up at him and smiled. “Look at me. How many men have…you seen recover from…this?”

Bush lowered him back down onto the bed. With the support of the table, he climbed unsteadily to his feet once more. “I’m going to get Doctor Clive,” he said firmly. Before he could move away, Kennedy caught hold of his sleeve. For a dying man, his grip was surprisingly strong.

“No,” he said, and his voice was suddenly stronger. His pain-racked face was suddenly full of determination. “There is no need to…try and humour me, Mr Bush, or to lie to me. I know I’m dying, I can feel it. But there is something I can do for you, and…Horatio, before I go.”

“What…?” Bush looked into his fellow officer’s eyes, and his own widened in alarm as comprehension slowly dawned. Kennedy stared calmly back, and nodded slightly. His gaze was clear; there was no trace of fever or delirium. But what he was proposing was madness… “No, you can’t - ”

“I can and I will. My life is over – what does it matter whether I…go to my grave a hero or a criminal? If you and Horatio follow me there will have been an injustice done. I can’t allow that.”

“The trial is not yet over,” Bush told him, desperately trying to think of some way to stir Kennedy from this insane course of action. “You cannot think - ”

“I don’t need to think…I know,” Kennedy said seriously. “They are determined that someone will hang…and Horatio has a deep-rooted martyr streak. He’ll confess that it was him just to…to save the rest of us. That’s the way he is. He will consider it…his…duty to take the blame.”

“Is that not what you yourself are proposing?” Bush’s head was swimming again – he could not believe what he was hearing.

“Duty? No, I have few feelings of…loyalty to the service. But to my friends…what is the exchange of a life all but over for one…barely begun? I will do it, Mr Bush, my mind is made up. You will not change it.” A chuckle escaped Kennedy’s throat. “If I am lucky, by the time the hangman comes for me I will have already gone.”

Bush sank down on the edge of the cot once more. He shook his head, muddled by the heat and a mixture of frustration and admiration for the young man before him. He could hardly condone an act of such lunacy, and yet he could not deny the bravery of a man willing to give up his own life, his own name, for his friends. Bush knew that it was Hornblower Kennedy was doing this for, that he himself was included more or less as a default, simply because he happened to be there. Nevertheless, he knew that he would always be grateful, humbled by the sacrifice, so willingly offered.

“It’s all right, Mr Bush,” Kennedy said, “They won’t be able to touch me. I want to do this…to give you and Horatio a chance. It’s no more than…you deserve.”

Bush bowed his head, unable to think of anything to say in reply.

“Will you keep me company for the rest of the night?” Kennedy asked after a long pause. “I fear that if I fall asleep I’ll be gone. Conversation will draw me back – that is, if to make small talk for hours will not be too arduous for you?” There was a mischievous glint in his eye, and Bush’s heart nearly broke to see it.

“Mr Kennedy, I don’t think I much care for your tone, sir,” he said, injecting as much of a growl into his voice as he could muster.

Kennedy laughed, and coughed again. “I wish I had been able to know you better, Mr Bush.”

“William.”

There was a warm smile touching Kennedy’s haggard face. “Very well, I wish I had been able to know you better, William.”

And I you, Archie, Bush thought sadly, And I you.

***

That night was the longest of Bush’s life.

He all but talked himself hoarse, an effort for a man not prone to garrulity, telling Kennedy about his family, his home, his experiences at sea. He talked of his volunteering for the Navy at the age of fourteen, of making his way up to midshipman on the favour of a captain who fondly remembered serving with Bush’s grandfather.

“The sea was in your blood, then?” Kennedy asked. He had wavered in and out of consciousness, hanging on to Bush’s words as a drowning man might cling desperately to an anchor.

“My father was a carpenter in the merchant service; he met my mother in Portsmouth when his ship had to put in for urgent repairs. Her father had been bosun in Redoubtable at Quiberon Bay so she knew the Navy well. I think they literally bumped into each other in the street.”

“Love at first sight, eh?”

Bush snorted. “Hardly. She found him too quiet and taciturn by all accounts.”

“How long were they married?”

“Forty-two years.”

Kennedy sniggered. “And I suppose you take after your mother.”

“Careful, Mr Kennedy,” Bush told him in a warning tone, raising a disapproving eyebrow, but was glad to see him laughing. His heart had been weighing heavier and heavier as the night wore on. More than once he had to support Kennedy as a coughing fit overtook him once more, or to give him water, cooling his brow with what little of the liquid could be spared until Doctor Clive and the orderly returned in the morning. Kennedy was sinking, and fast, there was no doubt of it. Bush was convinced that it was purely the young man’s determination that had kept him alive for so long. Where lesser men might have been content to submit to the will of God and nature and slip peacefully into oblivion, Kennedy would not give up the fight until he had achieved his purpose. Bush could only admire such courage – he was not sure that, had their positions been reversed, he would have been able to do the same. He had never seen such strength of will as he now beheld in the man before him.

At last the sunlight began to seep through the tiny window, hitting the worn flagstones of the floor. Morning had arrived, and there was no more time for Bush to try and convince Kennedy to abandon his plan. Nor would he have wished to. Terrible though it was, he understood why Kennedy had to do this. He would not stand in his way.

“What time do you suppose it is?” Kennedy asked, as the sunlight moved across the floor.

It was difficult to tell. “About four bells, morning watch, perhaps,” Bush suggested. He looked at his friend. It would take some time to get Kennedy ready for his court appearance, and still longer to persuade Doctor Clive to agree to it. “Do you wish me to call for the doctor?”

“In a moment. Hand me that book on the table.”

Bush reached over and picked up the volume – its leather binding was faded and cracked, the spine heavily creased from what must have been repeated readings. It was evidently a favourite. “The Collected Sonnets of William Shakespeare,” he read. Kennedy had quizzed him on his tastes in reading and music a day or two before, finding Bush sadly lacking in knowledge. When Bush admitted that he had never set foot in a theatre, much less a favourite play, he had thought that Kennedy might have a severe fit, so extreme had been his reaction.

“I want you to have it,” Kennedy said now. “Horatio will never read it, and…even if you do not care to improve your education - ” He smiled cheekily “ – then give it to your sister Lizzie. I’m sure she will appreciate…a new volume to add to her collection.” One of the many stories Bush had told during the night had been about his younger sister Elizabeth, the brightest member of the family, who was dependent for reading material on aunts and cousins who could afford to subscribe to the small circulating library in Chichester.

“Archie, I can’t take this,” he said, holding the book out.

Kennedy pressed it into his hands. “Take it, William. I want it to go to a good home.”

“And if you should need it?”

The smile became rueful. “I cannot take it where I am bound.” He caught Bush’s look and, rolling his eyes, added, “Very well, if you cannot take it, then…promise to keep it safe for me. I am not a believer in miracles, but nothing in life is ever certain. Will you do that for me?”

Bush sighed, and nodded. He blinked away the tears that pricked behind his eyelids.

“Thank you. You are a good man, William.” Something in Kennedy’s expression had changed – it was as if he was steeling himself, marshalling what little strength he had left for what was to come. “If you will call for him, I am ready for the doctor now.”

***

Some hours later:

It had been a draining day.

Doctor Clive, surgeon of HMS Renown, took a deep draught from his hip flask and dragged a handkerchief across his forehead. The whole past week had been difficult, not to mention the voyage from Plymouth that preceded it, but today had been particularly hard. The task of caring for Renown’s two wounded officers had fallen to him – Bush he held out hopes of recovering well enough to rejoin the ship before she sailed, but as for Kennedy…Clive had seen hundreds of dying men in his twenty-five years as a naval surgeon, and he could smell death upon the young lieutenant from the moment he had been brought to him in the orlop when the Spanish prisoners’ ill-fated revolt was over. He had decided days ago that it was only a matter of time.

It had therefore come as something as a shock to him to enter the two lieutenants’ cell earlier that morning to find Kennedy sitting on the edge of his cot, breathing hard and with sweat running from him in a river, quite cool-headedly demanding his uniform and an escort to the court. Clive looked to Bush, as if to ask whether his colleague had run mad, but the older officer simply shook his head, his expression more grim and melancholy than ever.

“Mr Kennedy, get back into bed at once,” Clive snapped, deciding that the time had come to take charge. “You will undo all of my work, sir!”

“I wish to have my uniform, Doctor Clive,” Kennedy insisted. “You will kindly have it brought to me. I am going before the court this morning.”

“The court has no need of your testimony, Mr Kennedy; they have reports from yourself and Mr Bush. That is quite adequate – no one would expect a man in your condition to appear before them.”

“Nonetheless, I am determined to present myself on the stroke of nine. I will need your assistance, doctor.”

Clive shook his head. “You are running a fever, sir, suffering from delirium. I will give you something to settle you.”

“Damn it, Doctor Clive!” Kennedy turned blue eyes full of fire on him. “Look at me! I’ll be lucky to make the walk there and back. Just help me and nature will take its course. I’ll be no trouble to you again.”

“You are my patient, Mr Kennedy - I have a duty of care to you. I cannot allow you to do this,” Clive said firmly. “The court has reached a verdict – there is nothing more you can do. What could you possibly do?” He frowned. “Unless of course you know who pushed the captain…”

“I do.”

Clive thought that he saw Bush momentarily close his eyes at the words, as though he were in pain. When he looked again, the second lieutenant was watching Kennedy carefully. “Who?” Clive asked. “Who pushed the captain?”

Kennedy’s chin was raised defiantly. “I did.”

I did.

Clive mopped his brow with the handkerchief again. The verdict, when delivered, had been brief. After Kennedy’s confession, Pellew had had no choice but to send him down. Clive had not missed the anguish which touched the commodore’s face, if only for a second, as the dying man was led from the courtroom, one faltering step after another. After that Kennedy had barely managed the short walk back to the prison hospital, the strength which had sustained him until then apparently deserting him. It was as if, his task completed, and justice done, he had no reason to continue the fight.

It was hot here in the prison mortuary, hotter than anywhere given the almost complete lack of ventilation in the thick walls of the fort. Clive took another swig from his flask and jumped at the sudden sound of a footstep behind him. Turning, trying to straighten his crooked wig, he was startled to find Commodore Pellew standing there.

“Commodore, sir!” Already more than a little drunk, Clive did his best to come to attention. “This is an unexpected pleasure.”

Pellew was frowning, looking around the room. There was but one body, hidden by a sheet, on the table, awaiting burial. Internment would be swift in such heat, and the death of a convicted criminal would require neither plot nor stone. “This is not a social call, doctor. I wished to…pay my last respects,” Pellew said awkwardly. “Mr Kennedy served as midshipman on the Indefatigable – there is a…history.”

Clive nodded. “Of course, sir. I understand that Mr Hornblower has taken the news very badly.” Hornblower had been with Kennedy when he died – he had continued to sit by the bed long after the body had been removed. Clive had checked on Bush in the naval hospital, where he had been transferred following Kennedy’s confession, a free man once more – the older lieutenant was never a great talker, but now he was barely speaking to anyone, lost in contemplation, turning a small leather bound book over and over in his hands.

“It has been a shock to everyone. Especially…” Pellew took a few steps into the room and stopped, turning on Clive with a sharp gaze. “May I see him?”

Clive hurried to draw back the sheet from the corpse’s face. Kennedy looked peaceful enough, his suffering finally at an end. Pellew stood at the end of the table for some time, hat in hand, lost in thought. Clive busied himself with the bottles and instruments on a side chest, careful to give the commodore some time alone.

“That it should come to this,” Pellew sighed. “So little to show for a life.”

There was silence in the room for some time, as Clive continued with his tidying, packing away the tools of his trade. There would be a detachment of marines coming soon to dispose of the body. No headstone for the late Lieutenant Kennedy – a communal grave within the prison walls was all that awaited him now, his name forever blackened. Sure enough, Clive became aware of the tramp of booted feet in the passage outside. He turned to Pellew.

“Sir, I am afraid that I must - ”

The commodore straightened, brisk and business-like once more. “Yes, yes, certainly, doctor. I take it that there is someone to read over him?”

“The prison chaplain has been summoned, sir.”

“Good, good.” Pellew fiddled restlessly with his hat and the hilt of his sword for some moments, his eyes never leaving Kennedy’s body. “I don’t…” Abruptly, the dark gaze narrowed, brows drawing sharply together. “Doctor Clive, did you see that?”

Clive blinked in confusion. “Sir?”

“It can’t be…Gods blood, it is!” Pellew’s eyes widened in amazement. He rounded on Clive. “Good God, man, you’re meant to be a surgeon! Do you not check that your patients are dead before you send ‘em for burial?”

“Commodore, I resent - ” Clive began, but Pellew cut him off.

“Doctor Clive, this man is still breathing!” he hissed.

“Breathing? You cannot mean that, sir! Mr Kennedy was pronounced dead more than an hour ago!”

Pellew was inches away now, his face thrust right into Clive’s. “Then how, sir, do you explain the fact that he appears to be drawing air into his lungs? I understood that to do such things one must first be classed amongst the living!”

Clive hurried to the table, and bent over the body. It was clear without recourse to an examination that Kennedy’s chest indeed had begun to rise and fall, though extremely shallowly, dry breaths escaping his cracked lips. Clive tapped the side of his face. “Mr Kennedy? Mr Kennedy, can you hear me?”

There was no reply. Kennedy did not move, just continued to breathe slowly in and out. Clive stared. “Dear God…” Never, in all his years of experience as a physician, had he seen anything like it. A miracle, a resurrection…he felt in his pocket for his flask and decided that he needed another drink.

“Quite,” said Pellew. He glanced at the door, which had that moment been smartly knocked upon. “It seems we must decide upon a course of action, doctor.”

“Commodore?”

“This is a delicate situation.”

“I have my duty, sir – I must report this to the authorities,” Clive pointed out. “The governor - ”

“This is a naval matter, Doctor Clive, and as such I am the authorities,” said Pellew. “Lieutenant Kennedy has been condemned. If we report his continued existence, he will be hanged within days. Such an action would serve little purpose.”

Clive felt suddenly very confused, and he knew that it was not due to the drink. “What are you suggesting, sir?”

Pellew was looking thoughtful once more. “I have an idea that could be ultimately beneficial both to Mr Kennedy and the service. I will need your help, doctor.”

“I will do all that I can to aid Mr Kennedy’s recovery, naturally, sir.”

“It may take a little more than that, Doctor Clive.” Pellew glanced at the door once more. “To begin with, you must breathe a word of this to no one…”

TBC


	21. Chapter Nineteen

“My God. That’s what all of this has been about? That book?”

Kennedy regarded the battered volume in his hand. “Not entirely, but this book is the key to whole business. The code cannot be unravelled without it.” He glanced at Bush and smiled slightly. “Thank you for keeping it safe for me.”

Bush wondered whether he would ever understand anything that had happened in the past few days. The sheer irrationality of events was taxing his credulity to the limit. “If I have had that book all this time,” he said, dreading the answer, “how is it that you managed to use it as the basis of a code?”

“My tutor gave me this book when I was nine years old – I read it so many times that I knew it by heart. There was no need for me to actually have the book before me in order to formulate the code itself. Unfortunately, my life has been so complicated over the last two years that I have had little opportunity for my own thoughts, and my memory has become rusty. With the book, deciphering the new additions to the journal will be child’s play.”

“So, even though du Vallon has the journal, without that book it’s useless to him?”

Kennedy nodded. “What we have to do now is recover the journal, and ensure that du Vallon does not gain access to this.”

“He knows of its existence, then.” Bush returned his sword to its scabbard and began to unbuckle his belt. There was water in the basin, cold, but it would do. Discarding the belt, he loosened his stock, stripping off his shirt and waistcoat and looking around for his razor.

Kennedy sat on the cot, idly watching him as he found the blade and the soap. “He would know that I have the key to the code, but not the source, or the exact details. But we must be careful – he has a sharp mind, and it would not take much information to enable him to put two and two together.”

Bush grunted, squinting at his reflection in the tiny mirror as he scraped the razor over his chin. “So we have but a small task ahead of us – locating Horatio and the journal, pitting ourselves in the process against a man whom for all we know may have half the French fleet at his disposal.”

“As you say: a small task. I believe that we are up to the challenge,” Kennedy said brightly. “We have been in tighter corners before.”

“In a 74 with bigger guns and more men at our disposal. Hotspur has only twenty guns, and those merely nine-pounders. In a pitched battle - ”

“Twenty nine-pounders are effective enough. And du Vallon has only his yacht and no fire power at all.”

Bush wiped the razor on a towel and put it away. “You can be sure of that?”

“The French fleet are blockaded at Brest. Any vessel fortunate enough to escape will be chased down by our own ships before they reach any possible point of rendezvous.” Kennedy grinned. “Have a little faith, William.”

“Hmm.” Bush raised a disbelieving eyebrow. “We shall see.”

***

“You are mistaken, colonel, if you believe I can help you in this matter,” Hornblower said, his mind feverishly making connections and failing to come up with one link that rang true. “This man Devereaux is unknown to me. I have never met, let alone served with, anyone of that name.”

Du Vallon regarded him with interest. “You must forgive me, capitane. I apologise, I have been remiss in not providing you with all of the facts. The man my subordinates questioned revealed another name Devereaux has been using – like all spies, he has had many identities. Perhaps this name may be more familiar to you – until recently, Monsieur Francis Devereaux was a lieutenant in the British navy, a lieutenant by the name of Archibald Kennedy. Does that name mean anything to you, capitane?”

Hornblower’s stomach jolted. No one had so much as mentioned Archie’s name since Kingston, not even Bush. It had been almost as if Archie had never existed, as if to speak his name would unleash some horror: as if to speak his name would mean that he really was finally, irrevocably gone. “You are mistaken, colonel,” he said, trying to keep his voice even and sound firm and dismissive, despite the fact that his guts were twisting. He would have to say it - there was no choice, he had to say the words that he had dreaded speaking all this time. Speaking them would make it real, make it true. He steeled himself, and forced them through the lump that was suddenly there in his throat. “Archie Kennedy has been dead these last two and a half years.”

“Now this is interesting,” said du Vallon, as though Hornblower had presented him with a puzzle or riddle, a fascinating fact. He smiled; that wolfish smile Hornblower was swiftly coming to dread and despise. “Perhaps then you should inform your Monsieur Bush of this man’s demise. One of my men heard him address Devereaux by that very name not twelve hours ago.”

***

“Mr Bush, this really will not do, sir. Every time my back is turned you seem to get yourself involved in some scrape or another.” Doctor Stewart clicked his tongue in annoyance as he examined the lump on the side of Bush’s head. The surgeon had arrived unannounced and – on Bush’s part at least – unwanted at the cabin door. From the look on Kennedy’s face and the smile he was trying to hide it was obvious who had summoned him. Bush shot him a glare and submitted to Stewart’s ministrations with bad grace, flinching when the surgeon’s expert fingers probed the injury.

“Believe me, doctor, I would not have done had I the slightest choice in the matter,” he said irritably.

Stewart finished dabbing whatever it was he had produced from his box of tricks onto the bruise and wiped his hands. “That should help to reduce the swelling. You will I hope allow me to satisfy myself as to the condition of your shoulder before I leave?”

Bush groaned and reluctantly withdrew his arm from his sleeve, allowing the surgeon to peel back the dressing and poke and prod the flesh to his heart’s content. Miraculously, it did not seem quite as painful as it had done for the past couple of days. Twisting his head round he was able to see that the London doctor’s work was holding, despite the rough treatment it had endured.

“Hmm.” Stewart replaced the dressing with a fresh one and bound the shoulder up once more. “You appear to have been lucky, sir – but I must insist that you do not over-exert yourself. I would be most put out to see you back in the sickbay so soon.”

“Have no fear, doctor, I won’t be burdening you with my company if I can avoid it,” Bush told him, and meant it.

“Then let us hope the good Lord spares you from any further mishap.” The surgeon closed his case. “Light duties, Mr Bush, remember that, or I shall confine you to quarters on doctor’s orders, and that will, I am sure, be equally unpleasant for us both.”

Kennedy sniggered, and Bush rolled his eyes. “Very well, doctor.” He was fortunately spared any of Stewart’s homilies, as before the surgeon could speak again there was a knock on the door. “Come!”

Carman poked his head into the cabin, panting as though he had run all the way from the quarterdeck. “Begging your pardon, sir, but Mr Orrock requests your presence on deck right away.”

Bush was on his feet before the boy had finished talking, reaching for his jacket. “What’s happening, Mr Carman?”

“We - ” Carman gulped, trying to regain his breath. “We think we’ve sighted a ship, sir.”

***

The lookout hailed from the masthead just as Bush reached the quarterdeck, Kennedy at his heels.

“Sail ho!”

Orrock opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Bush had shouted up to the man instead. “Where away?”

“Four points to starboard, sir!”

Kennedy was at Bush’s side as he raised his glass, fixing it on the smudge of white sail against the lowering grey clouds. “What is it?”

Bush did not answer immediately, assimilating exactly what it was he was seeing. He thought for a second that his eyes were playing tricks; that the distance and the light rain were distorting his vision, but as the ship rolled in the water, rising on an up swell, he could see her quite clearly. There could be no mistaking the size of her. Bush turned to Kennedy. “I thought you said that du Vallon’s ship was merely a yacht?”

Kennedy blinked. “It is. Nothing else could have evaded the blockades.”

“Then tell me,” Bush demanded, keeping his voice dangerously quiet and pushing the glass into his friend’s hand, “how it is that the French have a bloody frigate in open water so close to Brest?”

Kennedy snatched the glass, pressing it to his eye and staring at the ship in consternation. “Good God! She is a frigate! Thirty-six guns….wait, she’s not cleared for action. That’s one thing in our favour.”

“Oh, we can be thankful for one thing. Saints be praised,” said Bush, not bothering to hide his sarcasm. “I doubt if the situation will remain so once she sees us.”

“Perhaps we weren’t expected, sir,” Orrock suggested.

“Or perhaps that ship has nothing to do with the French colonel,” added Prowse. “Shall I alter course, sir? We’re headed straight towards her.”

“Keep her steady for the moment,” Bush replied. The frigate was hugging the shore, much as Kennedy had predicted du Vallon would do. Bush had no desire to be drawn too close to the French coast, where there would be little chance of escape in a fight. If the frigate were a lone vessel, a fortunate escapee of the blockade, it would be madness to engage her – Hotspur, with less than half the Frenchman’s firepower, would be blown to pieces in an open battle. But, if this ship did indeed have du Vallon aboard…He returned to Kennedy’s side at the rail. “Anything else?”

“Beyond the frigate, under her lee…” Kennedy struggled to focus the telescope. “Yes, there!” He handed the glass to Bush, pointing to the object that had caught his attention. “Do you see it?”

Bush did see it. Kennedy was right – on the larboard side of the frigate, more sails were visible, top masts rising up beyond her hull. “That’s a civilian ship.”

“It’s a yacht. I think it’s du Vallon’s La Guerre.”

There was silence on the quarterdeck for some moments, as everyone looked at Bush, awaiting his decision, a decision he was fervently wishing he did not have to make. It was one thing to lead in the heat of battle, in circumstances familiar to him, his instincts making the decisions, but here…Hornblower took risks like this every day, relying on the luck and ingenuity with which he seemed to be blessed in equal measure. He could turn almost certain defeat into a triumph. Hornblower would certainly attack the frigate, take that chance. But Bush was not Hornblower, and he doubted his own ability to pull victory from disaster.

And yet…he had a duty to his captain to do all that he could to salvage something from the increasing wreckage of their mission. Du Vallon believed himself to have the advantage, and it stuck in Bush’s craw to just give up and let him win.

He stopped, realising that he had been pacing the deck, and turned to his expectant officers.

“Mr Orrock,” he said, the decision made, “Beat to quarters. Clear for action.”

***

Below, Anna heard the ominous rumbling as the guns were run out. The hurried patter of feet on the deck thudded overhead as men ran to and fro. “What’s happening?” she asked Styles, who had appeared a few minutes before with two bowls of rather unappetising-looking stew for them. Salomé prodded suspiciously at the thick mess with her spoon - Anna, realising all of a sudden how ravenously hungry she was, wolfed hers down and tried not to think about the taste.

The big man glanced at the deck above. “They’ve cleared for action. Must’ve sighted a Frog ship.”

“You mean we’re going into battle?” Anna looked around her. Though she had told Bush, and repeatedly assured herself, that after all she had been through she was not afraid of danger, there was something very unsettling about the dark, enclosed space of the ship. The thought of chaos descending upon this claustrophobic wooden shell, of cannonballs smashing through the hull…death all around and no hope of escape…she was suddenly filled with an unfamiliar horror, a fear of a kind she had not felt in a very long time.

“Aye,” Styles said. “The two of you’d better stay down ‘ere, and get as close to the orlop as you can. It’s safer there.” With that he was gone, vanishing above decks with the lantern and leaving them alone in the darkness.

“We should do as he says,” Anna said over her shoulder. When she received no reply, she turned. “Salomé?” she hissed quietly, “Salomé!” Her eyes had not become accustomed to the all-encompassing blackness of the hold, and she could see nothing. There were no sounds to indicate that another person was close – she could not hear any breathing but her own. Finding a tinderbox in her pocket she struck a light - behind her the hold was deserted.

There was no sign of her cousin.

She was quite alone.

***

“Are you sure you want to take her on, sir? She has twice our guns, four times our firepower,” Prowse pointed out, unconsciously echoing Bush’s own words of a few months before, when they had encountered the Loire. “If we come within full range of her broadside - ”

“I am aware of the risk, Mr Prowse,” Bush snapped. “We’ve taken on a frigate before and lived to tell the tale.” The pronouncement was greeted with silence. No one voiced the words, but he knew what everyone on the quarterdeck was thinking: But then the captain was here…

Kennedy was still at the rail with the telescope. “Frenchman still not gone to quarters,” he reported.

Bush took the glass from him. The frigate’s gun ports were still closed, and there was little activity on deck. “I don’t like it. Why haven’t they cleared for action? Our colours are visible enough. What the devil is he playing at?”

 

 

“It could be a trap, sir,” said Prowse gloomily. “There’s still time to alter course.”

“There will be no alteration of our course, Mr Prowse.”

“It’s a big risk,” Kennedy said quietly in Bush’s ear. “It could easily be a trap. We have something du Vallon wants.”

“Nevertheless, it’s a risk we have to take.”

Kennedy looked surprised, then grinned. “Mr Bush, I do believe you’re learning.”

Bush flicked an eyebrow, and raised the glass once more. “It seems that this old dog has learned a new trick at last.”

***

“I don’t like this waitin’. What’re the frogs playin’ at?” Styles grumbled. Imminent action had drawn him above decks, eager to lend a hand. Even Bush had admitted that he was more use on the gun deck than in the galley.

Matthews was looking uncomfortable. “They’re waitin’ for us to go to them. Don’t want to make the first move.”

“What?” Styles snorted. “They could blow us out o’ the water in no time. They’re waitin’ for summat, and it ain’t for us to fire first.”

“Styles, if you tell me again that we’re cursed, I’ll chuck yer over the side!”

“That ain’t what I mean. Look. Just look at ‘em, and then tell me that they ‘aven’t met before today.” Styles nodded to the quarterdeck above them, where Bush could clearly be seen at the rail with his telescope, the mysterious Mr Devereaux beside him. The two men were talking quietly, their heads together as though they did not want to be overheard. As Matthews watched, Bush said something and Devereaux laughed, throwing his head back. As the light hit his features, the pale shaft of sunlight that peeped through the clouds at that moment touching the blond hair tied at the nape of his neck, Matthews blinked in astonishment. Surely that man was…but no. In that moment he could have sworn…He shook his head. No, it couldn’t be. Memories playing tricks on him, making his eyes cheat. He looked again, and Devereaux’s face was hidden in the shadow from his hat once more as he took the glass from Bush and trained it out to sea. “Well?” said Styles expectantly.

Matthews shook his head again. “You’re talkin’ rubbish, Styles. Keep it to yourself, will yer?”

“Matty - ”

“Shut up, Styles!” Matthews was alarmed to find that his hands were shaking. What the hell was the matter with him? He glanced up to the quarterdeck once more, but Devereaux had turned away. He was getting old, that’s what it was, seeing the things he wanted to see.

Styles was looking at him in alarm. “Matty?” he asked gently. “Are you all right?”

Matthews stuffed his shaking hands into his pockets, and hoped that the French would make a move before he convinced himself that he was going mad. There was no other explanation for it – a sane man would not be seeing ghosts on the quarterdeck.

“Matty?”

“Shut up, Styles,” he said softly, “Just shut up.”

***

Over the next hour, as Hotspur drew closer to the French frigate, Kennedy’s suspicions deepened.

There was little activity aboard the ship, and what movement there was seemed confined to a handful of men on the upper deck, none of whom were engaged in preparations for battle. It appeared that the French did not expect a mere sloop to attack, an astounding arrogance that was borne out by their complete refusal to go to quarters. Hotspur could inflict damage, but if the crew remained below decks…Kennedy shook his head. He had never seen anything like it, and it was clear that, even given his greater experience, neither had Bush. On face value, it was ridiculous, foolhardy, even. Kennedy could not think that of du Vallon – the man never did anything without reason. It would not do in this situation to believe without question the evidence of their own eyes.

“What the hell are they doing?” Bush muttered now, still watching the frigate through his glass. After a moment he snapped the telescope shut and fell to pacing the quarterdeck in frustration. Kennedy watched him, leaning on the rail, considering the suggestions that he been running through his mind. “Why won’t they go to quarters?”

“They want us to go to them,” Kennedy said. “They’re trying to lull us into a false sense of security, to get us to attack, thinking them unprepared. If we open fire on them, you can bet that behind those gun ports will be twenty-four pounders, primed and loaded. We’d be matchwood in minutes.”

Bush stopped his pacing in mid-stride and fixed him with a sharp glare. “What are you suggesting?”

“That it’s a trap. We had guessed as much – du Vallon is trying to take us for fools. And if we launch an attack, we will be.”

For a moment Bush looked lost, as though he had no idea what to do for the best. It was gone in a flash, however, the professional mask back in place. Kennedy could sympathise – it was hard living in Horatio’s shadow, and even harder to step out of it, and to act independently. It had taken him a long time to learn how to do so, to take decisions on his own initiative instead of looking to another. Bush looked around, the long fingers of one hand tapping at the wooden case of the telescope before he seemed to make up his mind and crossed to Kennedy’s side. “He wants us to bring the key to him.”

“Of course. He holds the advantage – Horatio and the journal. He knows that we will come to him – we have no choice.”

“We can hardly board her – they’d cut us to pieces the moment we cleared the side.”

Kennedy smiled slightly. “That depends upon the route we choose to take.” When Bush looked blank, he pointed to the masts now clearly visible on the lee side of the frigate.

“The yacht?”

“And from there it will be simple enough to smuggle ourselves aboard the frigate.”

“And if we are caught?”

“A small boarding party could face off better in a small vessel than a large one. The crew of the yacht will be limited, and if we can overpower them…”

They looked at each other for a long moment. Kennedy could tell that Bush was considering the implications of the plan, the consequences if it were to go wrong. If Hotspur fell into enemy hands…

Finally Bush nodded. He turned to his officers, all awaiting their orders. “Mr Orrock, form up a boarding party, no more than twelve men. Mr Prowse, call hands to wear ship – I want us in the lee of that yacht.”

“We’re not going to attack, then, sir?” Orrock asked in surprise.

“Not yet, Mr Orrock.” Bush raised his voice, addressing the quarterdeck at large. Kennedy had to give him credit where it was due – if he thought the plan foolhardy or suicidal, he gave no sign. Only the tightening of his grip on the telescope betrayed the feeling of nervous anticipation that Kennedy was feeling in the pit of his own stomach. It was a feeling he knew well, borne of the life he had been leading and the risks he had had to take. If this gamble did not pay off, they could all be doomed. “We’re going to give the Frenchman what he wants,” Bush said. “We’re going to get the captain back.”

TBC


	22. Chapter Twenty

Salomé swore softly to herself, shutting the lid of the sea chest.

There was no sign of the book. She had learned from Devereaux – or rather Kennedy, as she now knew him to be – that the key to the code was in Bush’s possession. When she had failed to find it amongst his belongings in Hanover Square, she had been convinced that it must be here on the Hotspur, but now…she swore again in frustration. She had been so close!

Some part of her felt a twinge of guilt at going through Bush’s belongings, at rifling through his life in so cavalier a fashion – he had been kind to her, when so few had even noticed her existence, and even though the kindness had been misplaced, borne of deception, it was no right to treat him in this way. Anna had said as much, though Salomé would never admit it – she could not afford sentiment to cloud her judgement. She had been working to hard for this, for too long; and far too much was at stake.

Salomé pushed the sea chest back into its corner. It was obvious that either Bush or Kennedy must have the book. All she had to do was find them and get close enough to claim it for herself.

A sound outside the cabin caught her attention. Creeping to the door she eased it open a crack – one of the midshipmen stood not three feet away, his back to her. He was small, barely more than a boy, his dark hair tied back in a neat queue that fell between his shoulder blades.

“Quickly there!” he shouted, and as there was the clatter of something heavy being dropped on the deck, “Careful, Cartwright! Look lively there, man – Mr Bush is waiting!”

Salomé felt in her pocket for the pistol she kept there. Carefully, she withdrew it and turned it in her hand, clasping it by the barrel. Holding the door so that it did not slam shut behind her, she padded stealthily from the cabin.

***

Hornblower had been left alone for some time, nursing his broken hand and making half-hearted efforts at breaking his bonds.

He was lying there, feet propped against the opposite wall, staring up at the ceiling and trying to count the knot holes in the wood when the door burst open, nearly striking him in the head. A French sailor stood there, musket in his hand, du Vallon and two more seamen behind him. Startled, Hornblower made a valiant effort to struggle into a sitting position, only to be grabbed by the scruff of the neck and hauled unceremoniously upright.

“You are to me moved to more…spacious accommodation, capitane,” du Vallon told him with a smirk.

“May I ask why? And I would also be interested to learn why you are keeping me alive, colonel.”

“Insurance, capitane, insurance, against the behaviour of your friends. You still have your uses, until I hand you over to the emperor. He will be eager to question a man who has been such a thorn in his side. And as for why you are being moved…” The smile widened unpleasantly. “It seems that Messieurs Bush and Kennedy are at last making their move. The endgame is drawing near, Monsieur Hornblower, and I do not intend to lose.”

***

“You understand your orders, Mr Orrock?” Bush asked.

Orrock nodded. “If you’re not back within two hours, I’m to sail to Portsmouth and deliver this - ” He held up the sealed packet Bush hadd given him “ – to Admiral Pellew, sir.”

“Very good, Mr Orrock. Are those men ready?”

“I think so, sir.” Orrock leaned over the rail. “Mr Carman! Hurry along there, man!” Below them Carman scurried into line, hat pulled ow over his face to no doubt hide the shame of being singled out. Orrock turned back to Bush. “Present and correct, sir.”

“Thank you, Mr Orrock. Carry on.” Bush turned to the companionway, only to almost collide with Styles, who had appeared without anyone noticing. The big man knuckled his forehead. Bush raised an eyebrow. “Yes, what is it, Styles?”

“Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but I’d like to come with you, if you’ll let me,” Styles said.

Bush glanced at Kennedy, who was trying to hide his face with the brim of his hat. It was obvious that, should it come to a battle, Styles would recognise Kennedy immediately, but there was no valid reason for refusing the big man’s request, and Bush was always glad to have Styles beside him in a fight. He nodded. “Very well, Styles. Mr Orrock, launch the quarter boat. Mr Prowse – as soon as we are away, take the ship round to the weather side of the frigate, but keep your distance.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” the master replied gloomily. He had not said as much, but it was obvious from his manner that Prowse thought the plan to be suicide.

Privately, Bush was not sure whether he didn’t agree with the master, but there was no other way. Du Vallon was waiting for them to go him. Unpleasant analogies of spiders and flies, and Daniel in the lion’s den floated through Bush’s mind’s eye. Shaking his head to banish them, he led the way down to the main deck, where the boarding party was waiting. “Come along, gentlemen, let’s get under weigh.”

***

Anna crept across the deck, keeping to the shadows, though with the men at their stations above there was little chance of her being seen.

A sudden noise startled her – she ducked beneath one of the mess tables, heart hammering in her ears, only to find when she risked a glance that the source of the sound was a small tabby cat prowling across the boards. The animal gazed at her steadily for several long moments before going on its way, tail in the air. A laugh of relief escaped her, hastily smothered. After a few minutes, which seemed more like hours, satisfied that she wasn’t about to be discovered, she rose from her hiding place.

There was no sign of Salomé.

Anna could not believe that her cousin could have disappeared so thoroughly – there were few enough places to hide aboard Hotspur, even for someone with Salomé’s apparent talent for deception. There was nothing for it – she was going to have to venture up on deck. She had to know what was going on, even if it meant risking William’s anger. Turning towards the ladder that led to the main deck, decision made, she reasoned that he would have to accept her presence on board. There would be little he could do about it now. She grasped the hempen handrail, and put one foot on the step.

It was then that she heard the sound. To her annoyance, she jumped. Listening carefully for a moment, she wondered whether she had imagined it, but then it came again. It was almost a knocking noise, like someone banging on a door. Glancing upwards, she thought for a second that it might have come from above, but it sounded too close for that. When she heard it a third time, she abandoned the ladder, padding back across the deck and weaving her way through the mess tables to the screen doors she had noticed earlier.

There was the knocking once again. Anna stopped before one of the doors, and put her ear to the wood. It was faint, but she could definitely hear some movement from inside. Tentatively she whispered, “Hello? Who’s there?”

Her only reply was another knock, and some muffled sounds that might have been a voice. Puzzled, and not a little concerned, Anna looked around her. To her amazement, she realised that the cabin door had been wedged shut with a length of wood propped under the handle. “Hold on,” she called softly, hoping to reassure whoever was inside. It took a little effort on her part, but in a few moments she had the wood free and was opening the door.

Anna was unable to suppress the gasp of surprise that escaped her as the door swung inwards with a creak. There, lying on the boards and trussed up like a Christmas goose was a boy, not much older than Jack. A handkerchief had been stuffed into his mouth and he was missing his uniform. Seeing her, he writhed on the deck, struggling to get free. From his position, Anna guessed that he had been knocking on the door with the toes of his shoes.

“What happened?” she asked, crouching down and removing the gag.

“Someone hit me, from behind!” the boy exclaimed, incensed. “When I woke up I was here! Bastard pinched my uniform!”

Anna could only think of one person aboard the Hotspur who would do such a thing.

But what in the world could Salomé be planning?

***

The deck of La Guerre was deserted.

With an effort, Bush heaved himself over the side and landed heavily on the boards, waving away Kennedy’s offer of help. He staggered to his feet and brushed down his jacket – he was damned if he was going to allow the men to see him having to be picked up off the deck.

He exchanged a glance with Kennedy. “Below?”

Kennedy nodded. “Du Vallon has turned part of the lower deck into a series of cells. That’s where he’ll be holding Horatio.”

Bush couldn’t help frowning. “You seem to know the layout of the vessel very well.”

“I should do.” Kennedy led the way across the deck. “I was a passenger on this yacht from Italy to Le Havre. I had plenty of time to see how our dear friend the colonel treats his guests.”

“Dear God. Torture?”

Kennedy grimaced. “Let’s just say that swabbing the lower deck was a regular part of the crew’s routine.”

The little knot of fear that had been gradually twisting itself into Bush’s guts over the past few hours tightened further. If they did find Hornblower and manage to free him, what sort of state was he going to be in? Dreadful images flashed through his mind – to banish them he turned his attention to his men. “Styles, you and Mr Carman keep watch at the entry port and the head of the steps,” he said quietly. “The rest of you fan out and cover the deck.”

There were nods of assent all round, no need for words. Styles took a tighter grip on his cutlass. “Good luck, sir,” he whispered.

Bush nodded, and crept off in Kennedy’s wake – his friend seemed to know exactly where he was going. As he reached the companionway and began to descend, he withdrew the pistol from his belt and drew back the hammer. They were heading into the unknown.

***

Styles watched them go.

“You be careful, sir,” he said softly, “both you and Mr Kennedy.”

***

Below decks it was dark, the blackness barely relieved by the few lanterns placed at irregular intervals.

Kennedy crept on, Bush at his heels, finding the route by instinct more than memory. He had not wanted to return here, hoped that the vessel would have been sunk months ago by one of the British patrols in the Channel, but du Vallon had somehow evaded them all. It would not have surprised Kennedy at all to find that the man was a demon, indestructible and malevolent, sent to try them. La Guerre had been run aground in an attempt to escape the British frigate placed on her tail late in 1802 – when the Andromeda’s captain had sent a landing party onto the beach to pick up the survivors, du Vallon had not been amongst the prisoners. La Guerre’s crew reported that their captain had been aboard at the moment the yacht hit the rocks, and that none of them had seen du Vallon escaping. No body was found, but Captain Talley’s official report listed du Vallon amongst the drowned. Six months later Kennedy had been in touch with Lambért’s network, and Lambért was in contact with du Vallon. The man had cheated death once again.

The tiny space that was La Guerre’s lower deck had been modified by her owner, divided into several small cells, little more than the size of storage lockers. Kennedy tried to fight the unpleasant memories that surfaced at the sight of them; memories of being imprisoned in such a space for more than six weeks after having been discovered snooping about the yacht in a tiny Italian harbour, led there by intelligence Pellew had gained from the Mediterranean command. He still bore the scars.

All of the cells were empty. Kennedy could hear Bush muttering profanities under his breath at the sight of the bloodstains on the boards, the holes in the makeshift bulkheads where chains had once been attached. It was clear that du Vallon had not sailed with ‘guests’ aboard for some months. There was no sign of Hornblower.

“They must have taken him onto the frigate,” Kennedy said over his shoulder. “We must – William?” There was no reply, but Bush had been right behind him a moment ago. It wasn’t like him to wander off. Kennedy turned. “William, I - ” His voice trailed off as he saw the little tableau lit by one of the lanterns that swung from the beams, the light skittering over the set face of Bush and the man who was holding a pistol to his head. Before he could move, Kennedy felt cold steel pressing against the base of his own skull.

“Well, well, well,” said a familiar voice, full of mockery and scorn, “What a surprise.” Du Vallon stepped out of the shadows; the vile smirk of superiority Kennedy had always loathed twisting his face. “Welcome aboard, gentlemen – I have been expecting you.”

***

The deck was still empty but for the Hotspurs.

Styles paced up and down the larboard rail, gun and cutlass at the ready, but no one appeared to challenge him. He turned and started on another length, wondering all the time how Mr Bush and Mr Kennedy were getting on.

He’d known Devereaux’s real identity almost from the first, known that there was something so familiar about him, yet unable to put his finger on exactly what it was. The knowledge that Mr Kennedy was dead, thousands of miles away in the dust and scorching heat of Kingston, had made the possibility that Devereaux could really be him seem ridiculous, incredible. But when Styles had seen him laughing on the quarterdeck with Bush…the last two and a half years might not have happened. He could have been back on the deck of Renown, watching the three lieutenants laughing together after their miraculous escape from the exploding fort, caught up in the exhilaration of that impossible jump from the cliff, in the sudden realisation that they had done it, they were still alive. In that moment, Styles had known, and his heart filled with affection, relief, and amazement. He had no idea how it had happened, but he thanked whatever god watched over sailors that it had.

All of a sudden he could hear movement and voices below decks. Something was happening. He looked around to tell Mr Carman, but there was no sign of the midshipman. Styles scanned the deck, but couldn’t see the small, dark-haired figure of Carman anywhere.

Where the bloody hell had he gone?

***

“Thank you for playing into my hands, gentlemen. I confess that I had not thought you quite so foolish.” Du Vallon came forward, a pistol held loosely in one hand. There was little need for the weapon – the gun that was pressing into the back of his head was an excellent deterrent for any thought of escape, at least on Bush’s part.

“If you’re going to kill us, du Vallon, just get on with it,” he said, trying his best not to think about those miniature torture chambers, just feet away from them.

“That would give me the greatest pleasure, lieutenant, but such an action would be I fear a little premature. And slightly awkward under the circumstances. And besides - ” the colonel glanced at Kennedy, who stared back “ – I think that allowing Monsieur Kennedy to live would be a far more interesting prospect, do you not agree? Yes, monsieur, I know exactly who and what you are. I wonder what would happen were I to deliver you to the authorities, you, a convicted mutineer; a man responsible for the death of his own captain?”

“The Spanish killed Captain Sawyer,” Bush said before Kennedy could speak, “They shot a defenceless, disturbed old man.”

“That is of little matter. If the authorities in England discover that Monsieur Kennedy has evaded justice they will take him back to Jamaica and hang him.” Du Vallon smiled at Kennedy. “I would pay any price to watch a filthy spy dance at the end of a rope.”

“They’ll give you a ringside seat, du Vallon, because you’ll be dancing there beside me,” Kennedy told him.

The colonel’s eyes sharpened like flints. “The British are too slow to catch me. They sent you, put you on my track, and look who has the upper hand, monsieur. If you are the best they can do, I have nothing to fear from them.” His grip tightened on the pistol, raising it just a fraction, so that it was pointing at Kennedy’s chest. “Give me the book.”

“I do not have it.”

Bush flicked his eyes towards Kennedy. This was no time for jesting! But Kennedy did not look amused.

“Do not play games with me,” du Vallon hissed.

Ignoring the pistol, Kennedy spread his arms wide. Du Vallon’s finger twitched on the trigger and Bush gasped involuntarily; convinced in that instant that his friend was going to get himself shot again, and this time there was nothing he could do. “If you believe that I have the book, then take it,” Kennedy said, “but I tell you again that I have not.”

“Archie - ” Bush began. If du Vallon pulled that trigger, there would be no escape. Death would not allow Kenney to cheat her clutches a second time.

Kennedy’s expression hardened, his eyes narrowing. In a moment the carefree innocence was gone, replaced by the fallen angel Bush had glimpsed what felt like a lifetime ago in Hanover Square. “Go on,” Kennedy said sharply. When there was no response, his next words were like a gunshot: “DO IT!!!”

Du Vallon barked an order in French to one of his subordinates. Kennedy stood there, a slight smile turning up the corner of his mouth. Bush could only watch as two French seamen roughly searched his friend, all but tearing the coat from his shoulders and ripping it apart in their feverish desire to find something for their master. After some minutes, one of them flung the coat to the deck and ground it into the boards with his heel. Du Vallon swore – though Bush could not understand the words there was no mistaking the sentiment.

Kennedy’s smile widened. “Not so foolish now - eh, colonel?”

Du Vallon spat a further stream of invective in Kennedy’s direction. “Where is the book?” he demanded.

“It looks very much as though I may have mislaid it,” Kennedy said, his tone apologetic, his face completely failing to show any sentiment of the sort.

In a moment du Vallon was across the deck, Kennedy’s collar grasped tightly in one fist. “Do not try my patience, monsieur.”

“You’re the second person to try to strangle me today, colonel. If I didn’t give in to Mr Bush, I’m unlikely to do so for you.”

Du Vallon’s voice was suddenly soft, almost caressing. Bush’s blood ran cold at the sound, remembering how the colonel had used the same tone when threatening Anna. “Where is the book, Monsieur Kennedy? I shall not ask you again.”

Kennedy just met the furious gaze with a cool one of his own; chin tilted defiantly. For a long moment there was silence, neither man willing to break eye contact and allow the other quarter. Bush found himself holding his breath.

Eventually, du Vallon, without glancing round, said something to one of his men. Bush felt as well as heard the ominous click of the pistol that was held to his head being cocked. He swallowed, hard. He could feel the tension in the man’s hand as his finger flexed on the trigger, making ready to make the tiny movement that would end his life.

“I would consider your answer very carefully, Monsieur Kennedy,” said du Vallon, “I can assure you that I will not hesitate to kill Lieutenant Bush should you give the wrong one, or fail to reply at all.”

Kennedy said nothing. Bush glanced at him in mute appeal. What the hell had Kennedy done with the book? Bush had seen him put it into his pocket before they left the Hotspur – that it was no longer there was obvious. Where was it?

“I am waiting, monsieur,” du Vallon said. “You have five seconds. Un…deux…”

The finger tightened on the trigger once more. Bush straightened, unwilling to give du Vallon the satisfaction of showing fear, even though his guts were writhing like a bag of snakes.

“…trois…quatre…cinq - ”

“Wait!!”

Du Vallon turned to Kennedy with a little smile of triumph that turned Bush’s stomach. “Monsieur?”

Kennedy’s shoulders slumped. “It’s on the sloop,” he said.

Glad as he was to still be alive, Bush could not believe that Kennedy was going to give in so easily, not after everything they’d been through. “Archie, no - ” he began, but Kennedy paid him no heed.

“It’s there,” he repeated, “I left it on the Hotspur.”

***

It was impossible to guess how long he had been languishing in this dark hole. Without recourse to either his watch or the regular pattern of the ship’s bell, hours on end could have passed since du Vallon’s men had thrown him into the frigate’s brig.

Hornblower sat in the shadows, the faint patches of light that fell through the grating criss-crossing the planks of the deck. At least it was a relief to be released from his bonds, even if the broken bone in his hand was burning as though there were a fire beneath the skin. He bound it up rather ineffectually in his neck cloth, hoping faintly that the makeshift dressing might help to ease the pain a little.

The frigate was unsettlingly quiet. Since he had been dumped here no sounds of activity, of the normal divisions of a ship’s day, had reached his ears. There had been no evident changing of watches, or meal times, no tramp of feet on the deck above as the men went about their business. The lack of activity was eerie, and it could only mean that du Vallon was waiting for something. It was quite obvious what that ‘something’ was.

Hornblower’s suspicions were borne out not much later. For the first time since his incarceration there was noise above him, a commotion and the thunder of booted feet on the deck, orders barked in French drifting through the grating.

A few moments later the grating itself was removed, and, after a sharp command from above, two bodies all but fell through the hatchway. Hornblower shuffled hastily into the corner just in time to avoid being squashed as the grating was pulled back and the lock secured with a loud clang that spoke of finality.

For a long time neither of Hornblower’s new companions moved or spoke, both groaning and winded from their unceremonious entrance. Eventually one rolled over and raised its head, and in the faint slivers of light from the grating Hornblower recognised Bush’s pale, bruised face, the blue eyes widening in astonishment.

His mouth worked silently for some moments before he recovered his voice. “Horatio – sir!” he exclaimed, struggling up with some apparent difficulty. “Are you all right, sir?”

“Tolerably well, Mr Bush, though I could wish our accommodation to be a little more comfortable.” Hornblower found himself echoing Bush’s smile of relief. “It appears that the French are rather less welcoming of their guests than the British navy.”

“French hospitality is not what it once was,” said another voice as the third man pushed himself up onto his elbows. This voice held a lilting Scottish accent, but there was something familiar about it. It nagged at Hornblower, turning over an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach. “It would seem,” the man continued, though as he did the accent began to slip away, gradually, until by the end of the sentence it had disappeared, “that in executing all their aristocracy they robbed themselves of any idea how to entertain their guests. I mean, I don’t expect the Hotel de Ville, but I’ve seen better appointed wells!”

Hornblower’s stomach dropped like lead into his boots. He glanced at Bush, hoping his friend would reassure him that he was dreaming, that du Vallon had been lying, that what he was hearing was a figment of his imagination, because he did not want to believe that his mind could play such cruel tricks on him. But Bush returned his gaze, eyes serious, and simply shook his head.

Slowly, reluctantly, not wanting to look in case he saw something that was not, could not be real, Hornblower turned to the man who had spoken, the man who had now angled his head into the light, the beams glancing from the blond hair that was, as always, escaping from its queue, and falling on the dancing deep blue eyes below. Eyes that were smiling, laughing, filled with a warmth Hornblower had thought was gone forever.

“But then, it is rather like old times,” said the apparition with Archie Kennedy’s smile. “Hello, Horatio – did you ever guess I’d be back to haunt you?”

TBC


	23. Chapter Twenty-One

Hornblower stared at the vision before him in astonishment.

Words, questions, nonsense all bubbled up in his mind, trying to burst forth, but speech was stymied by the lump that was quite suddenly there in his throat. Two and a half years ago, Archie Kennedy had breathed his last before him in a hot, stinking prison cell, half the world away. Hornblower’s youth, the part of him that had still known how to be carefree, had died that day with him. Since then, with no Archie to make jokes and force him to laugh at himself, he had turned his back on that time, determined to grow up and put all childish things behind him. With promotion came responsibility, and there was no place for irreverence. Archie, and the memories that he represented, had been quietly put away, folded into the back of Hornblower’s mind, sleeping there until perhaps one day he would be able to bring them to the fore without the still raw pain that was their constant accompaniment. The presence of Bush at his side was a reminder of those days, but by unspoken agreement neither of them ever mentioned Renown, and Hornblower had shut to door on that part of his life. Or rather he thought that he had. Despite his efforts, Archie had never been very far from his thoughts.

And now, now here in front of him was a sight he had believed he would never set eyes on again. It had been a shock to discover Archie wasting away in El Ferrol, but despite believing for months that he had been the architect of his friend’s death by setting him adrift, he had never actually had incontrovertible proof. In Kingston he had been at Archie’s side, had watched him, his heart tearing in two, as he had slipped away. The world had come crashing down around him as he realised he would never see that impish grin again, never be teased, joked with in that playful manner, would never again be the butt of the inappropriate sense of humour that had so infuriated Bush when he first came aboard. Archie was gone – he had taken that final, lonely journey from which there would be no return, gone to another place, a place Horatio could not reach him.

He should have known that Archie, with his energy and irrepressible nature, would never be able to stay dead.

It was somewhat ironic that Hornblower, distrustful of religion and unbelieving of such things as miracles, was looking at a living, breathing, resurrection.

He tentatively reached out a hand, unsure whether he was trying to welcome this vision or to ward it away. At last a word came, breaking through the obstruction in his throat, emerging as a whisper, the question that had to be asked: “Archie..?”

The ghost smiled, relief flooding features that, while still angelic, bore the lines and premature age of one who has not lived well. It was an older and more careworn Archie before him now. Time had not stood still for him – like Horatio, he had been forced by circumstance to grow up. But there was affection in the deep blue eyes, warm and simple. He grasped Hornblower’s hand, and the grip was firm, strong, real. “Horatio.”

“Archie...” Hornblower’s heart felt lighter than it had done in a long, long time. “Oh, God, Archie…” He grabbed his friend’s free hand, pulling him closer, and even before he realised, crumpled into an embrace, holding him tightly as though if he were to let go Archie might vanish, a figment of his imagination. The last time he had held Archie like this, he had been bleeding his life away, trying to hide a mortal wound from him – Hornblower had no idea how his friend came to be alive, but just at that moment it didn’t matter. They might be shut up in a miserable hole, with bars above them and an uncertain future, but one of them had stared death in the face and come through unscathed. There was hope.

Quite suddenly he realised he was laughing. And Archie was laughing, too, and Bush was smiling, and they were all together again. Just in that moment, whatever might happen to them, it would be all right. They had survived worse before.

***

Anna crouched on the deck, freeing Carman from his bonds.

Salomé had done a very good job with the knots, enough to put any sailor to shame. In the end, Anna had to resort to the knife in her pocket, sawing through the ropes. As she worked, she tried to field Carman’s questions – it was quite natural that the midshipman should want to know who had attacked him. He was so fixated on his assailant that it took him some minutes to properly look at his rescuer. When he did he blinked in confusion for some moments before blurting out,

“Miss…Miss Maitland! I…what are you doing aboard, ma’am? Did Mr Bush bring you?”

Anna shook her head. “Mr Bush does not know that I am here, and I would like it to remain that way, at least for the moment. I would be grateful if you kept the fact that you have seen me to yourself.”

“There’s no need for that, ma’am – Mr Bush isn’t here.”

Anna’s grasp on the knife faltered. She looked up sharply. “Not here? Where is he?” There were surely few places William could go in the middle of the Channel, unless…

Carman confirmed her suspicions. “He and Mr Devereaux took a party across to board the yacht,” he said, after explaining about the frigate. “I was to have gone with them.”

“They just went to him? Dear God…” And that must be where Salomé had gone, intent on finding du Vallon. Anna’s blood ran cold in her veins. She pulled away the last of the ropes and stood up, dragging Carman to his feet. He was suddenly blushing, looking around the cabin for something to cover his modesty. She caught sight of a greatcoat flung over the chair and handed it to him, realising as she did that it was William’s. So this was his cabin – she checked an impulse to have a closer look at the Spartan quarters, and turned to Carman, who was looking less embarrassed but was rather swamped by the coat. “I have to get across to that ship.”

The boy shook his head. “Mr Bush gave orders for the Hotspur to return to the weather side of the frigate. You can’t board her.”

“We shall see about that.” Anna threw open the door and hurried out onto the lower deck, Carman at her heels. “Who is in charge in Mr Bush’s absence?”

“Mr Orrock, ma’am, but you can’t - ”

“I do not believe in ‘can’t’, Mr Carman,” she told him firmly. “There is always a way.”

***

At the first hint of trouble below, Styles had taken charge.

As the most experienced hand, the others all looked to him for guidance. There were few places to hide on the yacht – the deck was too small, too bare – and they would have little time to return to their boat. Styles glanced aloft, and took the only refuge available – he ordered the men into the rigging.

There were footsteps on the companionway as they ran up the ratlines, getting as high as possible. Styles scanned the deck for any sign of Carman, but there was none – the midshipman had completely vanished. He couldn’t believe that the boy had fallen overboard, but where else could he have got to?

The Hotspurs watched from aloft as eight French seamen, all armed to the teeth with pistols and cutlasses, knives stuck into their belts, escorted two figures: one in dark blue, head bowed, the other missing his green coat and his hat, his blond hair escaping from the ribbon that bound it and blowing loose around his face. Styles’s stomach lurched to see the two men under guard, even as his heart leapt at the sight of Kennedy. Bush looked exhausted once more, even from above, his face weary and lined as he raised his head to glance around him. Styles watched and waited, but Bush did not look far enough up to see him. The two men were escorted to the looming hulk of the Liberté, and, with some muttered French curses and some coercion from the butt of a musket, made to scramble up the tumble-home ladder to the deck. The frigate creaked and groaned ominously in the wind that had freshened, rolling at her anchor. There was no one on her deck – from his perch Styles could see across her bow, and blinked in surprise as he realised that, not only were there no men, but the deck was also missing another important fixture: cannon.

There were no guns on Liberté’s deck, merely the empty spaces at her ports where they should be. Styles frowned. He had thought that the frigate looked high beside the yacht, but put the discrepancy down to the difference in size between the two vessels. From his position in the rigging it was plain to see that Liberté was riding high in the water, and there could only be one explanation – like the ships they had seen off Brest months ago, the frigate had had her guns removed. Despite himself, Styles grinned. It was like discovering that a particularly fierce dog had no teeth.

Even so, there were plainly some men aboard, and there was little chance of Styles being able to take Liberté with less than a dozen of the hands. He waited until Bush and Kennedy had been taken below, and slid down the ratlines, waving to his shipmates to follow.

There was no more they could do here. They needed the skill and firepower of the Hotspur.

***

“We have to get out of here.”

Kennedy paced the tiny space, his progress impeded by having to step over Bush and Hornblower’s legs with every circuit. Hornblower could tell that Bush was becoming increasingly irritated by this – his first lieutenant was looking tired, his face lined and dark shadows visible beneath his eyes. He was sporting a pair of rather spectacular bruises on his chin, but when questioned declined to elaborate on their origin. It was clear that the fall he had suffered in London barely twenty four hours ago was taking its toll, and Hornblower could not suppress a surge of concern for him.

“We are well aware of that, Archie,” Hornblower said now, in answer to Kennedy’s comment, wearily watching his old friend’s perambulations. “Have you any suggestions as to how?” It was strange how easy it was to fall into old patterns, despite their time apart. There were a thousand questions he wanted to ask, but had accepted Archie’s promise to explain all in good time. He and Bush had given Hornblower an account of their adventures since the intrusion at Hanover Square, but Horatio privately suspected that it was simplistic and heavily truncated. There would be time enough to discover the full story if and when they managed to escape from this hole; a circumstance it seemed would come later rather than sooner. The euphoria of seeing Archie again had swiftly worn off – three men imprisoned in such a small space, no matter how strong their friendship, quickly got on each others’ nerves. The sooner they got out of here the better it would be for all of them.

“We wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t told du Vallon where to find that bloody book,” Bush muttered. “We’re stuck down here and he has the Hotspur at his mercy.”

“In case you had forgotten, William, had I not told him you would be lying on the deck with a smoking hole in your skull,” Kennedy replied tartly. He paused below the grating and reached upwards to grasp the bars with both hands, as if testing their strength. He pushed, grunting with the effort, but the grating remained stubbornly in place. “Damn. No Styles to come to our rescue this time.”

“That book has been more trouble than it’s worth,” Bush said, continuing with his theme as though Kennedy had never spoken. “We should’ve burnt them both when we had the chance.”

“Exactly how much of a threat are the books?” Hornblower asked before Kennedy could take a swing for his former superior officer.

“More of a threat to du Vallon than to anyone. That’s why he wants it – the journal reveals his every move for the last two years,” Archie said, pacing once more. Bush’s foot twitched as though he was considering raising it to trip Kennedy up, but he fortunately restrained himself. “It contains the names of all the men who have been his contacts and informers in this country, which is why it had to be in code, obviously. Lambért and I devised the code together. Once the government have it they’ll be able to root out half the traitors in Whitehall.”

“And if Boney gets hold of it?” asked Bush.

“He’ll have access to du Vallon’s network, and have information from the heart of the British government. The consequences would be devastating – Paris would know our movements before our commanders.”

“And du Vallon already has the journal,” said Hornblower. They seemed to be thwarted at every turn.

“God, I hope Orrock obeyed his orders and sailed for Portsmouth,” Bush said.

“Unless the hourglass is running slow again, Mr Bush,” Hornblower remarked, and was rewarded with a slight smile.

“I sincerely hope not, sir.”

“The books are harmless unless brought together,” Kennedy insisted.

“Like gunpowder and slow match?” Bush raised a sceptical eyebrow. “How are we to stop him if he already has one and doubtless by now has obtained the other?”

Kennedy bent down and pulled something from beneath the cuff of his top boot. Hornblower frowned, and Bush stared, first in amazement and then in obvious anger, as a small brown leather book appeared. “He may find his search a little less fruitful than he imagines,” Kennedy said with a smile.

Bush was on his feet almost before Hornblower realised he had moved. The older man’s face was furious as he covered the tiny distance between himself and Kennedy, backing Archie up against the hull. “You had it all the time,” Bush hissed. “You told du Vallon it was on the Hotspur, when you had it all the time. You endangered the life of every man aboard, something you railed at Sawyer for doing! And for nothing! And you asked me to trust you!” Bush laughed harshly. He was so close to Kennedy that their noses were almost touching. “Have you lost every shred of honour and decency?”

“William - ” Archie began, but Bush was having none of it.

“You betrayed them, handed them to a madman, a sadist who tortures men for his own entertainment! How could you? How could you just give them to him for this?” he spat, trying to grab the book from Kennedy’s hand.

Archie did not loosen his grip. The two of them struggled for some moments over the small volume, neither willing to give in to the other. Hornblower though for a moment that they would tear the pages right down the middle, but the binding held. “Let go of the book, William,” Kennedy said, a definite warning in his tone, but Bush refused to give in.

Hornblower put a hand on Bush’s shoulder, but the lieutenant roughly shook him off, evidently forgetting in the heat of the moment that Hornblower was his commanding officer. “Mr Bush,” he said sharply, “Let it go. That is an order.”

Bush rounded on him, eyes flashing with rage. “Of course, you would side with him!” he snarled. “Have you any idea what he’s done? He has used us all, you included! For God’s sake, Horatio - ”

“That’s enough, Mr Bush.” Hornblower shot him a freezing glare. “Do you wish to be up on a charge of insubordination?”

“I have my orders,” said Kennedy. “I have no choice. You know how that feels, William – haven’t you always followed your orders to the letter, done your duty, no matter how much you might disagree?”

“Not at this price!” Bush snapped. “Never at this price!”

“Archie, there must be another way,” Hornblower said. It was evident now that more had happened between Bush and Kennedy than they had even begun to tell him. There was a defiance, but also a ruthlessness, in Kennedy’s eyes that he had never seen before. It sat ill with his almost guileless countenance, and Horatio could not pretend to like it. Though he knew that du Vallon had to be stopped, to do so like this, in an underhand manner instead of in a battle, a fair fight, sacrificing his men to be slaughtered like cattle…it was wrong, so wrong that his guts twisted at the thought. Bush was right – he had no idea where Archie had been, what he had done over the past two years. His experiences had left their mark on him, and it turned Hornblower’s stomach to think of what his friend may have become. If one danced with the devil, what did that do their soul?

“There is no other way, Horatio,” Kennedy said bluntly. “Do you think I enjoy doing this? I hate it! I loathe the position Pellew has put me in! It was never my choice, but I have to see it through to the bitter end. You have no idea what I’ve been through to get this far. I’m going to see that bastard swing if it’s the last thing I do – I won’t give up now, even if it means we all go down with him. He has to be stopped!”

“I won’t be dragged down for a duty that is not mine,” said Bush. “If you want to fight this out with that lunatic, you’re welcome to, but leave the rest of us out of it. My duty is to my captain and my ship, not to your schemes. I’ll have no further part of this.”

“And if your captain orders you to assist me?” Kennedy looked at Hornblower. “Horatio?”

“This is your fight, not ours,” Bush told him before Hornblower could speak. “If you want to pursue some personal vendetta - ”

“Vendetta?” To Hornblower’s surprise, Kennedy laughed. “Are you ever going to open your eyes? Do you know why I was a passenger on that yacht, William? I was a prisoner – they caught me trying to obtain secrets for Pellew, and they took me back to France with them. You saw those cells on La Guerre – what do you think happened? And I wasn’t alone. I think just for the torture they inflicted on me I would be justified in wanting my revenge! But despite that I did my duty, little though I may wish to have done, and I discovered some information that may interest you. Du Vallon has been pursuing a very personal vendetta against the French aristocracy for years, particularly against one family, a family he believes wronged him. Can you guess who they are, William?”

There was a long pause before Bush said quietly, “The Saint Clairs.”

“Precisely. And do you know why? It had little to do with their money or position – he denounced them because he believed they slighted him by refusing to allow him to marry a daughter of the house. Never mind whether she wanted him or not, or if she was promised to another – once du Vallon desires something he must have it. It would have excited him even more to know that she was unwilling. He has been working towards that goal for a decade now, and believes himself to be close to winning his prize. And do you know who that daughter is, Mr Bush?”

Hornblower glanced at Bush – his first lieutenant’s face was as pale as paper. When Bush spoke, his voice was barely more than a whisper.

“Anna Maitland.”

TBC


	24. Chapter Twenty-Two

Kennedy watched Bush, desperation, urgency in his eyes. Hornblower watched them both, carefully.

“You have to understand,” Archie said now, “With du Vallon, everything is personal. The Revolution, his loyalty to his emperor…it’s all just a means to get what he wants. And he wants Anna.” Bush was silent, so he continued, “He wants revenge on me, because I deceived him, brought him close to capture by British agents. And he’ll swear vengeance on you, too, William. He forgets nothing.”

“I never met the man in my life until yesterday. How can he hate me so much?” Bush said, shaking in his head in disbelief. “It’s insanity!”

“Did you not wonder why he despises you, when he barely knows the first thing about you?” Kennedy asked. “It’s because Anna loves you, and because you dared to love her in return. He won’t forgive you for that. He’ll kill you, and he’ll enjoy doing it, simply because you got in his way.”

“You know him better than us, Archie,” said Hornblower. “What do we do to stop him? Without my ship and my men…the three of us against a French frigate and her crew have no chance at all.”

Kennedy looked at him; head cocked to one side, and lifted an eyebrow. “That’s not the Horatio I remember – since when did you become so defeatist?”

“It’s not defeatism, it’s realism,” Bush snapped. “What the hell can we do trapped down here?” He turned and paced across the tiny space of deck, his fists clenched so tightly that the knuckles whitened.

“We escape, Mr Bush, then we consider our next move.”

“Mr Kennedy.” Bush had stopped, his back to them, spine straight and shoulders rigid as though he’d suddenly come to attention. His voice was dangerously quiet. “How the devil do you suggest we get out of here when we have bars above us, a heavily armed French crew ready to shoot us down and the Channel surrounding us on all sides?”

“We wait for an opportunity,” Archie said brightly. “Have a little faith.”

Before Hornblower could open his mouth to express his concerns about such a course of action, Bush gave a roar of frustration, deafening at such close quarters, whirled about and drove his fist into the bulkhead.

“We have no time to sit about waiting to be rescued!” he yelled. “I have to get back to London! I have - ” He trailed off abruptly, an expression of almost comical surprise on his face. Hornblower desperately fought the urge to laugh. Bush’s hand, instead of hitting the wood with a bone-jarring crunch, had gone straight through, leaving him with his arm embedded in the bulkhead up to the elbow. The wood had practically folded under the impact. Bush stared in amazement. “What the bloody hell - ?”

“It’s rotten!” Kennedy exclaimed, hurrying over to his side. “She’s full of woodworm! Look, Horatio, look at the holes!”

It was just possible in the poor light to make out the familiar pitted evidence of a parasite’s attack. Bush pulled his arm back, shaking splinters from his sleeve. “Why send a rotten ship on such an important mission? She must be barely seaworthy!”

“There’s something else,” said Hornblower. Something he had noticed as he had been brought from the yacht had been turning over in his brain for some time. It had been pushed to one side by Archie’s unexpected appearance, but now its significance returned, greatly increased. When the two of them look blank, he added, “The guns, gentlemen. Did you not see them?”

“Guns?” repeated Bush. “Twenty-four pounders, surely?”

“I didn’t really notice,” said Kennedy, shrugging. “The pistol in my back was occupying my attention. What of them?”

“Nothing. That’s just the point. There aren’t any,” Hornblower said. “None at all. The ship is unarmed.”

Bush frowned. “No guns? Surely that’s impossible!”

“Not if this ship is a troop ship, like the ones we saw before. Not in good enough condition to fight a battle, but to transport men and equipment a relatively short distance across the Channel…”

“Christ.” Bush shook his head. “No wonder there was something wrong – she was riding too high in the water.”

“She’s a hulk!” crowed Kennedy. “Du Vallon obviously matters less to Bonaparte than he thought! Oh, this is sweet.”

“So that’s why she didn’t clear for action. No guns. But I don’t understand – why send a defenceless hulk to collect something so important? They must have known that British ships would try to recover the book.”

“Perhaps they expected the mere sight of a frigate to be enough to frighten off a British ship,” Hornblower suggested. “Boney has been good at underestimating us in the past.”

“Nevertheless, a rotten ship with no firepower is little help to us. We’re still trapped,” Bush pointed out.

Hornblower exchanged a glance with Kennedy. Their eyes met, and Horatio couldn’t help smiling. For one exhilarating moment, they were both thinking the same thing. They could have been back on the cliff, overlooking Samanà Bay, knowing that there was only one way out and daring each other to take it.

“No we’re not, Mr Bush,” he said. “If we can make a hole in the wood, we can reach the outside.”

It took several moments for the implications of this to dawn on Bush, but when they did his face fell and he shook his head again. “No!” he said emphatically. “Absolutely not!”

Kennedy grinned. “What’s the matter, Mr Bush?” he asked innocently. “It’s only water…”

***

Orrock snapped the glass shut and paced to the larboard rail. “What the hell’s happening over there?” They were half an hour into the second dog watch, and there was no sign of Bush or Devereaux.

“The two hours are almost up, Mr Orrock,” Prowse pointed out from the wheel.

“I know that, thank you, Mr Prowse,” Orrock snapped.

“We have our orders, sir.”

“Thank you, Mr Prowse! I am aware of my duty.” Orrock stared desperately out to sea, tapping the glass against his hand. He had no idea what to do for the best. It was true that he had his orders, and that he knew that he was bound to follow them, but all the same…to leave his captain and first lieutenant behind, to abandon them to the enemy…his whole being revolted at the thought. And Mr Bush had disobeyed his own orders, once before, remaining when the captain had told him to leave, just to give him a little more time…

“Sir! Mr Orrock, sir!”

The shout came from the starboard rail. Matthews was there, gesturing wildly. The next moment, a familiar curly head appeared over the side, and Styles was heaving himself onto the deck.

“What’s happening, man?” Orrock demanded, hurrying over.

“Mr Bush and Mr Ken – Mr Devereaux, sir,” Styles said breathlessly as the rest of the boarding party clambered aboard behind him, “They’ve been taken prisoner, sir, on the frigate.”

Matthews was staring at Styles in a kind of numbed disbelief – Orrock ignored him. “Did you see this?”

“Aye, sir. We saw ‘em taken aboard at gunpoint.”

“Damn.” Orrock’s duty was now clear: return to Portsmouth with all speed. He had no choice. Against a frigate, with his officers missing, there was nothing he could do, no chance of fighting. Resigned, he turned to the wheel. “Set a course for Portsmouth, Mr Prowse.”

“Aye aye, sir.” The master looked smug, but Orrock was not about to give him the satisfaction of showing that he was riled by it.

“Sir, we’ve lost Mr Carman, too,” said Styles. The big man’s scarred face was creased in concern.

This just kept getting worse and worse. “Was he taken prisoner?” Orrock asked.

Styles frowned. “I don’t rightly know, sir. I looked and ‘e was gone, vanished, sir. Couldn’t find ‘im anywhere.”

Orrock swore again. This was a complete disaster. Three officers lost. It would have to be put into the hands of Pellew – Orrock could imagine the admiral’s reaction. “Surely he wouldn’t have gone over the side, would he?”

“No, sir, he would not,” said a voice from behind, startling him. He turned to see Mr Carman emerging from below decks. The boy was wearing a greatcoat that was too big for him, and was followed by a tall, fair young man in a blue coat that Orrock could not recall ever seeing in his life before. He was certainly not a member of the crew, and Devereaux had brought no assistants aboard with him…as the newcomer came into the light and removed his hat, Orrock was amazed and alarmed to recognise the attractive, finely-featured face with its frank blue eyes that regarded him with defiance. Anna Maitland stood behind Carman, a head taller and with a man’s attitude, a pistol at her side. “Someone knocked me down and stole my uniform, sir,” Carman said. “They took my place in the boat.”

Orrock blinked. “Who - ?”

“My cousin, Salomé, Mr Orrock,” said Anna calmly. “I believe her intention is to kill du Vallon.”

The world suddenly seemed to be falling around Orrock’s ears. First the loss of his commanding officers, and now he had to contend with the awkward and unexplained presence of women aboard the ship. Hotspur was not a big enough vessel to allow accommodation for the wives of seamen, and Orrock was not entirely sure how to deal with them. It was quite clear from the way Miss Maitland held her pistol that she had not stowed away purely to be close to Mr Bush. “Your cousin?” he repeated. “Why are the two of you here? Mr Bush will be furious - ”

“I’m sure he will, but his opinion is of no matter at the moment – he is not here. And he won’t be if you run away and leave him and the captain behind,” she told him bluntly. “You have to get them back.”

Orrock stiffened. He was not going to be dictated to by a woman, and a stowaway at that, even if she was close to Mr Bush. “You have no right to say so, ma’am. I have my orders, and I must obey them.”

“And you follow them blindly too, do you? Dear God, another sheep, no imagination of his own.” She stepped closer to him, her finger resting on the trigger of her pistol. The movement was slight, but the warning was clear. In a moment she was close enough to almost look him in the eye. “The man I love is trapped aboard that frigate, Mr Orrock. Are you just going to abandon him?”

“You don’t understand. You shouldn’t even be here. Mr Bush left me in command - you have no right to dictate to me what I should do.”

“So you are just going to allow that man to kill them, is that it? I will tell you something, Mr Orrock. I have seen what du Vallon is capable of. He will torture and humiliate men just because they got in his way. He has raped and murdered women for his own amusement.” Anna’s voice was just loud enough for Orrock to hear, low and relentless. Her eyes glittered with anger. “He ruined my family, killed my uncle and destroyed my home. If you think I am going to allow him to spread his evil once more, and damn any chance of happiness I might have, you are very much mistaken.”

“I can’t do it.” His voice sounded small, weak, almost pathetic. Orrock swallowed, tried again. “I can’t attack that frigate.”

“I think you lack the courage to make a grand gesture, Mr Orrock.”

“A grand gesture? To attack a ship with twice our guns?” Orrock exclaimed. He laughed, a little hysterically – he couldn’t believe this was happening to him. His voice rose in frustration. “They have four times our firepower – if we attack we’ll be blown to pieces! How would that help the captain and Mr Bush? Well? Do please tell me, ma’am, because I’d very much like to know!”

There was a sudden silence on the quarterdeck. He looked around – everyone was staring at him in amazement. He straightened, feeling himself flushing in embarrassment. He deliberately didn’t look in Prowse’s direction – he could feel the master’s triumphant gaze boring into the back of his head. Something prodded him in the chest – startled, he looked down to see that it was the barrel of Anna Maitland’s pistol. There was naked fury in her eyes.

“If you leave them to die, Mr Orrock,” she said, her voice dangerously quiet, “I will make you suffer for the rest of your natural life, do you understand me?”

Orrock’s throat was suddenly dry. “I have my orders,” he said hoarsely, “I am in command.”

She looked at him steadily for a long moment, before, gradually, and to Orrock’s great relief, the pistol was withdrawn, and she moved away. “Maybe,” she said, her voice now loud enough to carry across the deck, “we should see how the men feel about it. Would they be wiling to abandon their captain?”

Orrock stared at her in astonishment. “You are inciting mutiny, ma’am!”

“Perhaps, but needs must when one is facing the devil, Mr Orrock.” Anna leaned on the rail. “How many of you men are with me?”

There was silence for some moments. Orrock held his breath, praying that the loyalty and common sense of the crew would prevail. For a long time it seemed that no one would answer Anna’s call, until, at length, Styles stepped forward. “I’ll come with you, miss.”

“Aye, me too,” Matthews agreed, to Orrock’s dismay, joining him at Anna’s side.

“And me.” That was Cartwright, and then Tite and Harper behind him stepped forward, too. Before long, almost the entire crew had volunteered, all staring at Orrock in defiance as they gathered on the deck below.

Anna looked at him in triumph. “Well, Mr Orrock? Now what do you say?”

Orrock’s shoulders slumped in defeat. If the crew wouldn’t follow him, he was left with no choice. He was caught, literally, between the devil and the deep blue sea. “Very well,” he said reluctantly. “We’ll attack the frigate.”

There was a cheer from below. Ignoring it, Orrock walked to the larboard rail once more and stared out at the Liberté. They would all be going to their deaths. How could they even hope to overpower a ship that size? After a few moments, he realised that there was someone standing beside him. He looked round, and was surprised to see Styles. The big man knuckled his forehead. “Yes, Styles, what is it?” Orrock asked wearily. He was disappointed, but he knew he should have expected this kind of behaviour – Matthews and Styles would follow Hornblower and Bush through the fires of hell if it were required of them.

“Sorry, sir, but I just wanted to say that the lads don’t think any less of you for tryin’ to do yer duty, sir,” Styles said. “Command ain’t easy, they know that.”

“I, er…” The little speech was so unexpected that Orrock didn’t quite know what to say. “Thank you, Styles. Carry on.”

“Aye aye, sir. Oh, and sir,” Styles added as he made to turn away, “Don’t worry too much about their firepower. That frigate ain’t got no guns.” With a grin and a brief salute he was gone, leaving Orrock to stare after him, open-mouthed.

***

“Colonel, I cannot do as you ask! It is impossible!”

Salomé froze as she heard the voices up ahead, ducking behind a bulkhead and crouching down, taking a firmer grip on her pistol.

“Capitane, you were sent here to assist me, to follow my orders. I am ordering you to attack that ship!”

At the sound of the hated voice, she risked a glance – du Vallon was barely ten feet away, his face black with anger as he faced down the frigate’s captain. Ten years had done little to change the saturnine features – he had not even begun to grey yet, though the affected moustache was a new addition. Merely the sight of him sent a wave of fury through her. For him to stand there, large as life, with that familiar arrogant tilt of the head, while her father lay in an unmarked grave with so many others, tossed away like a piece of refuse…to see the man who had been responsible for his death once more, and to see him so utterly confident in his supposed invulnerability, made her blood boil. Her finger tightened on the trigger. It was a reflex action, however – it would not do to kill him here, to merely shoot him through the head and deny him the suffering he had deserved as retribution for that he had inflicted on so many others. No, his death would be a slow one, as she had vowed all those years ago. She had waited this long – a little more time would make no difference.

“How do you suggest I attack the ship, colonel?” the captain demanded. “They have cannon – small ones, it is true, but they are guns all the same. They will cripple us before we get close enough to react.”

“We have men, armed men. Allow the Hotspur to think she has the upper hand; let her rake us with her pop-guns.” Du Vallon laughed. It was a chilling sound. Salomé recalled that laughter ringing out in the cold dawn as her father was led to the scaffold. “Once she is close enough we can board her and attack in force. My prize is on that ship, my key to glory, and I will not forsake it for so trivial a reason!”

The captain looked at him in disbelief. “Trivial? Am I to send my men heedlessly to their deaths for a book? Is that not trivial, colonel?”

“The capture of the book is of the greatest importance, capitane. I have orders from the emperor himself. If you defy me, then you defy him by default. Do you wish to do that?”

“I was sent here to return you to France once the book was in your possession, colonel, not to fight a battle. Had that been the intention an armed vessel would have been provided. I am here to offer you transport, nothing more. I will not send my men to their deaths for you!”

Du Vallon took a step forward, his face inches away from the unfortunate captain. Salomé’s heart skipped a beat – it was clear that the captain had no idea with whom he was dealing. “You will regret this, capitane,” du Vallon said, just loud enough for her to catch the words. “I will see that you regret it. No one has crossed Francois du Vallon and lived. Remember that, capitane: no one.”

***

“Damn it – one of these must lead to the outside!” Kennedy put his shoulder against the wood once again – they were surrounded by previous efforts, the rotten planks torn away haphazardly, and all had splinters and bleeding fingernails to show for their work, but as yet they had failed to find an exit that led to anything but another section of the hold. Bush would have been quite happy to escape that way and take his chances above decks, but Kennedy and Hornblower were adamant: the only safe way out was to leave the ship altogether and return to the Hotspur. Bush voiced his doubts about Orrock having disobeyed his orders and remained in the area, but this did not seem to worry them. In fact, they seemed to relish the challenge, the uncertainty. Personally, Bush liked to know exactly what was going on, not to give himself up to chance – there were reasons why he was not a gambling man, and a lifelong determination not to take foolhardy risks was one of them.

“By process of elimination, Archie, that should be the one,” Hornblower said. “You’ve made holes in all the others.”

“Unless of course we’re slap bang in the middle of the hold,” Bush pointed out.

“Don’t be such a pessimist, Mr Bush,” Kennedy chided. He tried to break the wood again, with little success – this particular bulkhead was proving tougher than the rest. Straightening, he turned back to his friends. “We need more force. Horatio, lend me one of your shoes.”

“To hammer through there?” Hornblower shook his head. “Not likely! This is the only pair I have without a hole. Use one of your boots.”

“Have you any idea how long it takes to get these things on and off? Besides which, they’d be ruined, and they cost me a fortune.”

Hornblower stared. “So it’s all right to ruin my shoes but not your expensive boots?”

Kennedy smiled appealingly. “Well, they are halfway there already…”

“Archie!”

“I’m pleased to see that espionage is paying so well these days,” Bush remarked, leaning against one of the only undamaged sections of bulkhead. “For the king to afford to kit his spies out in the best Bond Street has to offer the service must be doing sterling work.”

“I’m not even going to bother rising to that, William.” Kennedy told him as he kicked at the wood. It refused to budge. “Damn! Why won’t this one fold?”

With a sigh, Bush pushed himself upright and crossed the small space to Kennedy’s side. “You’re not putting enough force in the right place. There must be a weak point.” He rested a hand against the planks, and began to push against the wood, feeling the resistance beneath his fingers. Ironically, if it were indeed the way to the outside, the wood was holding up rather better than on the other bulkheads. Eventually, though, he felt some give under his hand. “Stand aside, Mr Kennedy.” Kennedy did so, watching him with undisguised interest. Bush took a step back, and threw himself at the bulkhead, driving his uninjured shoulder into the wood. As expected, the planks crumpled under the onslaught, hit right at their most vulnerable point – a moment later he gasped in shock as cold water poured in, the sheer force of it driving him backwards. He coughed, flailing desperately, trying to raise his head above the flow. Panic threatened to overtake him, his heart beating like a wild thing – he couldn’t breathe….

Someone grabbed by the collar and hauled him upright. Before he could properly register what was happening, he felt his arms caught and firmly held. Above the sound of the rushing water, he thought he heard Hornblower’s voice, somewhere close to his ear: “Take a deep breath, Mr Bush, and hold on – we’ll look after you!”

Something in the back of Bush’s mind, some deep-rooted instinct of self-preservation, screamed at him that this was madness, lunacy, that if he didn’t get out of this situation right now he was going to die. Brief flashes of the darkness, the bitter, chilling cold, the disorientation of the last time he had been helpless in the water, when he had been utterly convinced that he would drown, returned to him. He tried to shout out, to say something to convince his companions that they were making a mistake, that he didn’t intend to drown today or any other, thank you very much, but his mouth was full of water, and they were pulling him inexorably towards the hole. Before he could spit out the water, make it clear to them that he really, really didn’t want to go, they had hurled themselves through the opening, never relinquishing their hold on him, pushing against the water pouring into the ship.

Kicking and inwardly screaming, Bush was dragged into oblivion with them.

TBC


	25. Chapter Twenty-Three

He was blind. He could see nothing but the darkness. The cold clutched at him, closing around his heart like a vice. His limbs were lead, his chest tight, lungs burning, desperate for air.

Water. It was always water. Was this some great cosmic joke? Though it might seem ridiculous for a man who had spent more than half his life at sea, Bush had always been frightened of her depths. On one of his early, over-eager forays into the world of sailing, spurred on by his grandfather’s tales of the sea, he and his cousin Ned had built themselves a boat. It had been a foolhardy expedition, the usually cautious William goaded and encouraged by his older and more reckless cousin. Away from any kind of adult supervision, they had taken the little boat down to the stream near their homes, carrying it between them until the channel widened into an inlet that would lead them out to the open water. Though there was rivalry between them over who was going to be the captain, all had been well until the boat had sprung a leak. In water deep enough to drown two young boys they had struggled, desperately trying to bail out, but the tiny vessel capsized. Ned, a less than competent swimmer but with more skill than his cousin, made it to the bank and turned back to help, but the current began to carry William away out of his reach. Terrified, screaming at Ned not to leave him, William clung to the remains of the boat, desperately calling out until he was swept out of sight. By the time Ned returned with assistance, the current had carried William downstream – his distraught mother and grandfather found him amongst the reeds, half washed up on the bank and still clinging to the boat, bedraggled and shivering from cold and fright. He had not been scolded, his parents deeming the shock punishment enough. While the incident had not altered his love of the sea and ships one bit, the terror had remained, and the adult Bush had always determined that he would serve out his career on the sea, not beneath it.

That childhood feeling of fear, of complete and utter helplessness, clawed at him now. He had been down here too long, far too long, for it felt as though he had been struggling in this dark for years. His chest was on fire – he had to breathe, damn it, he couldn’t hold on any longer. He…had…to…breathe…

***

“Take us in closer, Mr Prowse.” Orrock stood at the rail, glass in hand, watching the frigate as she crept ever closer. He could now see what should have been evident before – the ship rode high in the water without the weight of her guns. There were men milling about on her deck, some taking up position along the side, muskets at the ready.

The master was looking resigned. “Aye aye, sir. Two points to starboard,” he told the helmsman.

“Aye aye, sir – two points to starboard it is.”

Orrock leaned over the quarterdeck rail. “Run out the starboard guns, Mr Carman!”

“Aye aye, sir!” The response came, not from Carman but from Anna, who had found herself a sword from somewhere and taken up a position on the gun deck. As Orrock looked down, she glanced up at him and gave a cheeky salute. He briefly considered ordering her below for her own safety, but knew it pointless. She would never take any notice. For a moment he wondered how Mr Bush would react to seeing her this way, to being disregarded in such a manner. He could not imagine the exacting lieutenant standing for it for a moment.

The marines had formed up on the quarterdeck and along the starboard rail, their sergeant barking orders as they primed their muskets, making ready to fire, their actions almost mirroring those of the men on the opposing vessel. Below, the men stood ready with their cutlasses and pistols, ready to swarm over the side and onto the deck of the frigate at the first command.

Tense, unsure of how this gamble would pay off, and inwardly praying that Styles was right about the lack of guns, Orrock grasped the rail tightly as they sailed ever closer to the other ship. He forced himself to have faith.

If this failed, they would all be damned.

***

Salomé felt the ship lurch beneath her feet.

Two seamen dashed past her hiding place, faces twisted in panic. They sprinted round the bulkhead and out of sight, yelling at the tops of their voices. “Sinking! Mon Dieu, we’re sinking!”

Waiting until their footsteps died away, she crept out of hiding and padded off after them as the deck rolled beneath her. Du Vallon wasn’t going to get away that easily.

***

Hands pulled him towards a faint glimmer of light overhead, but Bush felt something dragging him back. He struggled desperately against it, trying to free himself, but it was no use, he couldn’t break its hold. Panicking, he floundered, flailing against the water that imprisoned him, trying to find something to lash out at, to vent his terror and frustration, but it slid away from him, intangible as a willow-the-wisp. His clutching hands caught nothing, clinging to emptiness. He wanted to shout, to holler his anger to the world, but he could not, he could only hold onto that straining, burning breath he’d been holding for what felt like forever.

Then, quite suddenly, he was free, moving in the vastness once more, away from the shadows of the depths. He kicked out, pushing himself onwards, upwards. Dear God, let this be freedom or let me die now…

***

“You really shouldn’t be ‘ere, miss,” Matthews said, his face creased in concern as Anna stood behind number two gun crew, watching their preparations with undisguised interest. “This is no place for - ”

“For a woman?” She looked at him and smiled. “You sound just like Mr Bush. Have no fear, Matthews, I’ll not hinder you. I’ve had to fight before.”

The bos’n glanced at the pistol in her hand and the sword at her hip. “Aye, I can see that, miss, but that ain’t what I meant. If I let anythin’ happen to you, Mr Bush would - ”

She held up a hand, shaking her head. “Thank you for your concern, but you have no need to fear for me,” she said. There was warmth in her eyes for a moment before she turned back to the gun. “I can take care of myself.”

“I’ve no doubt you can, but I’ve been at sea a long time. I’ve seen too much, miss, and this ain’t no place for you. A battle is no place anyone with an ounce o’ sense would choose to be.”

“I know.” With a sigh, Anna turned, and now the blue eyes were full of sadness. “Believe me, Matthews, I would not choose to have done many of the things I have been forced into over the last decade. But I have made to best of it and learnt how to survive. That’s all I’ve been able to do. Do you understand that?”

“Aye, miss, I do.”

“Then you’ll understand why I cannot allow the man who ruined my life to get away with it.”

“Aye, miss.” Matthews glanced down at the deck as the men scurried past him, sanding the boards, the powder monkeys ducking between them, in and out of their legs. He was thinking of the figure he’d glimpsed on the quarterdeck hours before, the ghost of a time that had been and gone. “But maybe you should remember that there’s other things besides revenge. There’s more important things in the present – the past is dead. It ain’t goin’ to come back so you can change it.”

For a moment it seemed that Anna would say something, continue to argue, but any words seemed to die in her throat. She nodded, a sad smile flickering about her lips, before the gun crew claimed her attention once more.

Matthews sighed and shook his head. He had done his best. Watching Anna as she stood behind the gun, her head held high and her hand grasping the hilt of her sword, for the briefest of seconds he could almost see Bush there. For a long time he had never expected to see the first lieutenant attached – even when the captain had married, Bush had never seemed interested; Matthews had thought him to be an eternal bachelor, devoted to his sisters and the sea. Matthews was never one to pry into his officers’ private lives, but he could never have imagined a Mrs Bush. The thought had seemed ludicrous. But now, seeing Anna here in Bush’s world, away from the finery and opulence of Hanover Square, Matthews was not so sure.

The past is dead. It ain’t goin’ to come back so you can change it. Matthews had always believed that. And serving in His Majesty’s Navy, with a high chance that in battle you might be cut to pieces by flying splinters or have your head blown off by a cannonball, there was little you could do but live in the present. You never knew when it might be your turn to go. He’d always tried not to dwell on the past, but it had been on his mind more often than not today, memories he’d thought buried rising to the surface once more.

He’d heard Styles when he came aboard, caught the slip of the tongue the big man had hastily concealed. Styles seemed to be in one of his funny moods again, had got a thought into his head and convinced himself of something that couldn’t possibly be true. That had to be the case, Matthews had been telling himself – Styles got these strange fancies every so often. But he’d eventually been right about the Bonapartes…could he really be right about this? Matthews didn’t dare to think so, but he had to know for sure, if only to stop the memories of two years ago continually nagging at him.

Styles was helping with number six gun. Making a pretence of checking the preparations of each crew as he passed, Matthews approached; tapping the big man on the shoulder and making him jump.

“I want a word with you, mate.”

Styles looked a little guilty as he straightened and followed his friend out of earshot of the rest of the crew, under the shelter afforded by the quarterdeck. “What’s the matter?”

“I ‘eard yer,” Matthews said, “when you came aboard just now. I ‘eard what you almost said.”

“Don’t know what you mean, Matty.”

“Don’t give me that, Styles! Why’d you say it? Why did yer tongue slip like that?” Matthews demanded. Even now he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer, but he had to ask. “What did you mean?”

Styles looked at his feet for a moment, apparently trying to control the smile that was suddenly, inexplicably playing around his lips.

Matthews stared at him in amazement. “Did I just say somethin’ funny?”

“No, no, that ain’t it, Matty. It’s just that…” At last, Styles looked up, and he was grinning. “You’ll never believe it – I thought I were dreamin’, or run mad, when I saw ‘im, but ‘e’s there, he’s alive! I saw it wi’ me own eyes!”

Matthews blinked. Surely it couldn’t be…Styles must have been mistaken…even as he thought it, he knew that Styles would never be mistaken in something like this. He must be… “You mean - ”

“Aye, I do! I don’t know ‘ow ‘e did it, Matty, but ‘e’s alive! Mr Kennedy’s alive!”

***

“We cannot fight them! This is madness!”

The Liberté’s captain watched, aghast, as the sloop came closer and closer, her gun ports gaping open. At any other time the sight of a smaller ship gaining on them with intent to attack would be laughable, ridiculous, but not today. The guns may be merely nine-pounders, but they could still inflict considerable damage, and the frigate was defenceless against them. The only way to fight would be at close quarters, running the gauntlet of those guns. Du Vallon was on deck, yelling at the men as they fumbled with their muskets, forming up a straggling defence at the port rail. The crew was inexperienced, a rabble, formed of those men the admiral could find a use for nowhere else in the fleet.

He stumbled suddenly as the ship heeled, losing his balance as the deck dipped beneath him. There were shouts from the men – he could hear du Vallon screaming something above the general sound of confusion, but could not make out the words. There was a great creak, like a tree about to fall. The captain gazed about him wildly, trying to work our where the sound had come from – the masts were intact, no threat of them toppling despite their poor repair. The deck lurched again, and he realised with shock and panic that the noise had come not from above, but from below.

Before he could even begin to decide what to do, the masts of the British sloop loomed large on the port side, her sails billowing in the wind that was strengthening with every passing minute. He opened his mouth to shout an order, but his voice was drowned by the boom of the sloop’s guns.

And then all hell broke loose.

***

Bush broke the surface, light and sound assaulting his senses. He stared around him wildly, unseeing, random shapes and colours blurring his vision. His chest heaved as he suddenly remembered how to breathe, and he choked – someone slapped him hard on the back as he brought up what seemed like a gallon of seawater. Gasping, eyes streaming, he glanced round to see Kennedy at his shoulder, soaking wet and smiling broadly. Belatedly he realised that Kennedy and Hornblower had braced him between them, just as they had done that day in Samanà Bay, holding his head above the water.

“Just like old times, eh, William?” Kennedy asked cheerfully, water running down his face from the hair that was plastered to his forehead. “We should do this more often.”

It was fortunate that Bush could neither find the breath nor voice to reply.

“Look!” shouted Hornblower, nodding towards the looming ship above them. Bush glanced upwards to read the name painted on her stern, and relief flooded through him. Orrock had not left after all. Though he would later have words with the midshipman about disobeying orders, the sight of Hotspur filled his heart. They had a chance, they actually had a chance! From this angle the sloop looked huge, the hulking shape of Liberté alongside her, heeling dramatically from the water that must by now be rushing into her hold.

The sudden ear-splitting boom of a cannon firing made them all jump. Kennedy stared around. There could only be one source of the noise – sure enough, smoke was drifting from Hotspur’s deck.

Bush coughed. “What the hell are they doing?”

***

“FIRE!!!”

Orrock screamed the order from the quarterdeck. The French seamen, those who had not been caught off-guard by the sudden lurching of the frigate, were aiming their muskets – before they could open fire the resounding boom of Hotspur’s first cannon sounded, the smoke billowing into the air between the ships. Shards and splinters flew from the Liberté’s hull as the ball hit home, dead on target. At this distance it would be impossible to miss. Men yelled in surprise and pain as they vanished in the haze, the acrid smell of gunpowder drifting up from Hotspur’s main deck. But there was no time to think – the next gun fired, and then the next…

The two ships were so close that Orrock could clearly see the men on the Liberté’s deck; could almost reach out and touch them. A tall man with a moustache stood amongst the gunmen, sword in hand, remonstrating with another Orrock took from his uniform to be the frigate’s captain. The first man’s face was contorted with anger – he was shouting something that Orrock, deafened by the gunfire, could not make out. There was little that could be done – the frigate, without her own guns, was virtually defenceless.

The Liberté creaked and groaned as she heeled again, and the men vanished from Orrock’s sight behind a pall of smoke. He found himself wondering what could be affecting the ship so – a rogue current, a swell that had by some lucky chance not hit Hotspur? Or was it something more sinister?

“Sir! Sir! Over ‘ere, sir!” Matthews was waving from the stern as the guns fired again. The deck below was ordered chaos, above the musket men on the frigate making headway into the ranks of the marines – before Orrock could consider shouting an order, sending someone to see what Matthews wanted, he saw Anna running aft, Styles at her heels. He would have given chase, but a shout from Prowse and the whistle of a bullet past his ear claimed his attention.

“Fire!” he yelled at the marines, who were regrouping, assisting their fallen comrades. “Fire, damn it! Reload!”

***

“What is it, Matthews?” Anna asked anxiously, ducking through the madness of Hotspur’s main deck. She could barely see for the smoke, eyes streaming, the shouts and screams of injured men loud in her ears and cutting through her heart like a knife no matter how she tried to blot them out.

Her foot skidded in something wet on the deck – she almost fell, but steadied herself just in time. When she opened her eyes, she could not hold back the cry of alarm that escaped her as she found herself looking into the dead, staring eyes of a boy no more than twelve years old. He lay on the deck, his forehead pierced by a Frenchman’s bullet, the back of his skull a bloody pulp.

Nausea flooded through her, bile stinging her throat as suddenly she was back in the burning shell of her grandfather’s chateau, the glassy, unseeing eyes of another boy, barely a few years older than this one, imploring her to help him, begging her to end the pain. Nicholas…oh, God, Nicky…I’m so sorry…I’m so, so sorry…Shot by du Vallon’s men, his life bleeding away with every passing second, he had pleaded with her, desperately, his tears matching hers as he begged her to make it stop. Anna, please, please, it hurts so much…please…do something…if you love me…

“Miss? Are you all right, miss?”

The mist receded, the past ebbing away, returning to the shadows from whence it came. Anna dragged her eyes away from the dead boy to see Styles peering at her in concern.

“Miss?” the big man asked again.

Anna swallowed, and dragged a hand across her mouth. “I’m fine, thank you, Styles.” She was acutely aware of how weak her voice sounded, but she was not going to give in. She wasn’t a feeble woman, damn it! She could cope! But the voice, dead so many years now, echoed in her head…Anna…Anna, please…help me…

“Styles, get a bowline down ‘ere, now!” Matthews called.

Styles dashed off – Anna followed, trying desperately not to look back at the boy’s corpse, his dead eyes reproaching her for not helping him. Nicky’s face, cold and still, the blood stark against the white marble of his skin, blossomed in her mind’s eye. Anna…

Somehow, she reached the aft rail, and looked down – to her amazement, there in the water below Hotspur’s stern were three figures, two of them treading water and supporting the third between them. With a start, she recognised the wet and bedraggled forms of Kennedy and Hornblower, each with an arm around a wilting Bush. Her heart lifted – he was soaked to the skin and coughing up water, but he was alive. She had called out before she even realised – at the sound of her voice Hornblower glanced up hopefully towards the ship. On seeing her and Matthews he waved, and he and Kennedy began to make a concerted effort to move closer.

“They escaped!” Anna said, shaking her head in wonder. To escape from an enemy ship, surrounded by water and with who knew how many armed Frenchmen aboard, should have been impossible, but somehow they had done it.

Beside her, Matthews was grinning. “Aye, miss,” he said, “They’ve got someone smilin’ on ‘em all right, all three of ‘em. You can’t keep ‘em down.”

***

Five minutes later, Bush lay on the deck, gasping like a landed fish, Anna at his side. Kennedy whooped as he was hauled aboard, an exhilarated grin on his face.

“When can we do that again?” he asked as his feet touched the ground.

Hornblower smiled and shook his head, wringing out his shirt. Water was pooling all over the deck, pouring from their sodden clothes. “Only you would think swimming under a frigate fun, Archie.”

Bush coughed. “If either of you…ever…make me do that again…” he managed, “…I swear I’ll…kill…the pair of you!”

“Come on, Mr Bush – you enjoy it really,” Kennedy said, his grin widening. Bush just glared at him, chest heaving as he tried to regain his breath. There was seawater dripping from the end of his nose, spoiling the effect somewhat.

“Sir!” Orrock shouted from the quarterdeck. Hornblower had leapt up and was gone in a flash, heading across the smoke-covered main deck – Liberté loomed above them on the starboard side, listing alarmingly.

Anna helped Bush to his feet. He was shivering, water running from his soaked uniform in a torrent. He looked tired and worn, the fine lines around his eyes deeper than before, giving him the appearance of being somehow suddenly older. The bruises he had sustained earlier were stark against his pale skin – Anna winced as she remembered her fist connecting with his jaw. Her knuckles still felt sore from the impact.

“Thank you,” he mumbled as she caught his elbow to steady him. He reached up a hand to push back the sodden hair from his forehead – as he did he raised his head, his eyes meeting hers. For a long moment he stared at her uncomprehendingly, blankly, before gradually realisation dawned and the pale blue eyes widened in astonishment.” Good God…Anna? What in Christ’s name are you doing here?”

“Pulling you out of the sea.” She brushed a lock of hair that had fallen over his eye back into place and smiled. “We really have to teach you how to swim.”

He shook her off, pulling away. “I can’t believe you’ve done this! What did you do, stow away? Did you listen to nothing I told you?” he demanded. Anna took a step backwards, recoiling from the anger in his eyes.

“I - ” she began, suddenly speechless, unable to find the words to defend her actions. She had known he would be angry with her, but she was unprepared for the full force of his fury. His face twisted with rage; those eyes, which could be so tender, so compassionate, so beautiful, blazed sheer blue fire. “I had to come. I had to be there at the end,” she said finally, ignoring an instinctive desire to cower from it and holding her head high, meeting his gaze head on.

“You had to be here,” he said quietly, so quietly she barely heard him. “You saw fit to set everything I said to you at nought.” There was more than just anger in his eyes, Anna realised, and it stabbed at her heart to see disappointment writ large, disappointment in her. He thought she had let him down. “Did you not think there was a good reason why I told you to stay behind?” he asked. “Or do you think I make such confessions idly?”

“Dear God, I thought I’d lost you.” His words of the previous night echoed in her head. She closed her eyes, biting her lip. “Will, I – I’m sorry, I - ”

She could feel his eyes on her, regarding her. “You’re sorry,” he whispered. “Have you any idea what you’ve done?”

“I don’t…” Anna’s cheeks burned. She raised her head, opening her eyes to meet his once more. “I wanted to see this through. Why can you not understand that?”

He looked at her for a long moment. Anna gazed back defiantly. “I had no choice,” she told him. “I had to do it.”

For several seconds he didn’t move; his face blank, cold. Anna hated that expression, hated him hiding behind that mask. It was impossible to know what he was thinking. When he did finally react, the result was explosive.

“Bloody hell, woman, this is not a game! You could be killed!” Bush bellowed, startling everyone. “What in God’s name were you thinking? How dare you endanger yourself like this?”

Anna stared at him in amazement. “How dare I? Am I not permitted to make my own decisions? Or are you angry because it offends your sensibilities to have a woman enter your refined male naval world? You have no right to give me orders, William Bush, none at all! I am not your chattel, to be disposed of as you see fit! Is that what you would expect from a wife, to stay meekly at home and obey her husband’s every command? If that is the case, you will find that you are dealing with the wrong woman!”

“Yes.” His voice had dropped once more. The word was soft, but she did not miss the steel in it. His eyes were flat, cold. “Yes,” he said again, “I can see that I am.”

Kennedy put a hand on Bush’s arm. “William,” he said quietly, but Bush roughly shook him away.

“Leave it, Kennedy,” he snapped, “We have more important business to concern us.”

And with that he walked away, following in his captain’s wake, leaving Anna staring after him, fighting back the treacherous tears that were quite suddenly spiking behind her eyes.

TBC


	26. Chapter Twenty-Four

“Will! Will, come back!”

Anna started after Bush, but Kennedy caught hold of her arm. “Leave him.”

She stared at him in consternation. “I can’t! I have to - ”

He shook his head. “Give him some time.”

“Time? We could all be dead in ten minutes! I have to make him understand; he has to know what du Vallon has done to me!” Anna cried, desperation in her eyes. “He has to know! That man - ”

“I know what he’s done,” Kennedy told her seriously. Beneath his touch she was trembling. The bravado had gone. Just at that moment she looked exactly what she was: a frightened woman dressed in men’s clothes. Tear-filled blue eyes gazed at him imploringly.

“You know? Everything?” she asked.

“I know enough.”

“Then you must understand why I’m doing this, why I have to see him punished! It’s the only way I can ever be free of him!”

Kennedy nodded. “I understand. God knows, I have enough reason to want him dead myself.” He realised he was rubbing his chest, and dropped his hand – the movement was always unconscious, a reflex action he had been left with ever since his sojourn on La Guerre.

Anna caught hold of his sleeve, her fingers twisting the sodden fabric. “Then why can I not make William see? Sometimes I think he is being deliberately blind!”

“He thinks with his head, not with his heart. In some way I think he does understand. But he’s angry, and surely you can see why?” Kennedy asked. When she looked blank, he exclaimed in frustration, “For Christ’s sake, Anna, anyone can see how much he cares about you! You do know that, don’t you? He trusted you, and you betrayed his trust, putting yourself in danger when he was trying to keep you safe. Is it any wonder that he’s angry? The man loves you! Can you not see that?”

Anna looked at him for a long moment, before she carefully pulled away. Before Kennedy could start after her she was halfway towards the main deck, running for’ard to where Bush stood with Orrock and Hornblower. Even from here Kennedy could see the black look on Bush’s face. Bush was a stubborn man, but he had met his match in Anna.

Kennedy swore.

There was a cough from behind him. Turning, he saw Matthews there, plainly trying to hide the delighted smile that was creeping across his face.

“This may not been the best time to say so, sir, and I don’t need to know where you’ve been all this time, but by God, sir, it’s good to see you again,” the bos’n said, knuckling his forehead.

Kennedy couldn’t help smiling back. There was something unfathomably reassuring about Matthews – his presence alone could convince that everything would be all right.

A stray bullet from the Liberté shattered the illusion, making both men duck. Matthews pulled the pistol from his belt and fired back, causing one of the men on the frigate to fall out of sight with a cry. Kennedy was suddenly aware that he was unarmed. “It’s good to see you, too, Matthews,” he shouted as the marines opened fire once again, “And if we survive the next few minutes I’ll tell you where I’ve been!”

Matthews followed as he ran for the main deck. “That sounds fair enough to me, sir!”

***

Salomé crept out onto Liberté’s upper deck, her gun gripped tight. She could see du Vallon, even through the mêlée – smoke drifted freely across the deck, mixed with the shouts of panicked men and cries of pain from the injured. The guns were still booming out irregularly; beneath her feet she felt the frigate pitch again, rolling unsteadily like a drunk at a party.

Du Vallon was yelling at the captain – the man looked frightened but determined. She could not make out their words from this distance, but that made no difference. It was already clear that the captain was not one of du Vallon’s supporters, and he was evidently refusing to cooperate, which could only be to her advantage. But she would have to get closer if she stood any chance at all of achieving her goal. The accuracy of the pistol could not be guaranteed – with only one shot at her disposal, she needed a more reliable method of dispatch.

The smoke cleared for a moment, and there he was before her – their eyes met, and Salomé straightened, chin raised defiantly. Du Vallon’s expression was blank for few seconds before a smile began to spread over his face. Salomé had seen that smile before: predatory, lecherous, the most unpleasant smile she had ever seen. When last that smile had been directed at her, at the age of eleven, she had just seen her adored father butchered by a braying mob – she stood at the side of the guillotine, her dress still wet with her father’s blood, thin, dirty, her hair in a tangle over her face, eyes permanently red from crying, and even at such a young age she had known what the smile meant. It meant that she would be next.

Salomé determined then that she would never be next.

Smile widening, du Vallon pushed the captain aside, and strode towards her.

***

“William!”

Bush turned to see Anna running across the crowded main deck towards him, her hair flying free in the breeze that had suddenly strengthened. He had shed his soaking jacket – the wind cut straight through his wet shirt to his already chilled skin. When Anna reached him and laid a hand on his arm, the heat from her fingers was alarming. He shivered involuntarily.

“For God’s sake, Anna, get below where it’s safe,” he snapped. A few feet away, Hornblower was marshalling the remaining marines, Orrock supervising the reloading of the guns. On the deck of the Liberté, the men were milling around in confusion – Hotspur had the advantage, and now was the moment to press it home. There was no time to spare for quarrels and recriminations, but as he had expected, Anna would not do as she was told.

“I will not. Have you any idea what that man has done to me, William?” she demanded. “Have you?”

“Anna, now is not the time to discuss this!”

“Mr Bush!” Hornblower shouted. “Prepare the men to board!”

“Aye, aye, sir!” Bush called back. Anna was still holding his sleeve, her expression determined, but he tried to pull away, tried to ignore the pleading light in her eyes. “This will have to wait.”

“It cannot wait,” she insisted. “Do you honestly think that I would have put myself in this position if I really had no other option?”

He glared at her. “How the hell would I know? I thought I could trust you, but it seems I was wrong. Now let me go – I have duties to attend to.”

“You can trust me! Will, I love you, you must know that!”

“Then why the hell could you not trust me?” he demanded. “Why could you not trust me to deal with this?”

“Has he told you? Kennedy?” Anna asked as he pulled away from her. He stalked to the middle of the deck, wishing he hadn’t left his sword behind on the frigate. He snatched up a fallen cutlass, sliding the bloodied blade into his belt, doing anything to avoid her words. “Has he told you about du Vallon, what he did to me?”

Bush stopped; his back to her. Kennedy’s words crashed unbidden to the front of his memory: Never mind whether she wanted him or not, or if she was promised to another – once du Vallon desires something he must have it. It would have excited him even more to know that she was unwilling. The force of those words was almost a physical blow, striking him between the eyes. The thought of that man laying a hand on Anna…he felt sick, as anger rushed through him once more, hot and overwhelming. He vowed there and then that it was never going to happen again. He straightened, and turned to her.

“He told me something,” he said. “It was enough. Now, for once in your life listen to me. You are going to go below to the orlop where it’s safe, and you are going to leave me to deal with du Vallon, do you understand? I am not going to let him get away with it, and I am not going to let him get the opportunity to hurt you again. He’s going to pay for what he’s done.”

“Will - ” she began, but he cut her off.

“Just go, Anna! Do as you’re told for once, please!” She opened her mouth to protest, but he turned away without waiting for her reply, seeing Styles approaching from number three gun. The big man hurried closer in response to Bush’s shout. “Styles – form the men up! We’re preparing to board.”

It was not until he was standing at the rail, sword in hand, that he realised that for the first time Anna had told him that she loved him.

***

“Will!” Anna called desperately, but he was not listening, talking to Styles, giving orders, doing what he did best. He looked desperately tired, but the authority was still there, the ability to command.

She knew he was disappointed with her – her heart ached as she remembered the look in his eyes when he had realised that she was aboard. It pained her to know that she had hurt him – she would never have done so had the circumstances been different, she realised that she loved him far too much for that. But she had to see this through to the end. Du Vallon had been the monster of her nightmares for so long…she had to end it, end the pain she had been carrying with her for a decade. She had to end it, no one else; she had to exorcise her own demons. If only she could make him see that…and make him see the danger that he was in. This was no ordinary fight. Du Vallon would kill him; there was no doubt about it, no question. And Anna knew that to lose him would be more than she could bear.

It had happened before.

Du Vallon had hated Nicolas because he had dared to love her, had shot a boy in the stomach and left him to bleed to death on the steps of Claremont as the flames licked higher and higher around him. Nicky had been in such agony, pleading with her to make it stop, to give him release from the pain. Dumb animals were put out of their misery, were they not? Surely man was above the beasts – if it was kind to end their suffering then surely a man had the right to ask the same?

Anna had been sixteen. The boy she loved, whom she was going to marry, to spend the rest of her life with, was bleeding his life out on the steps of her home. The home that, once so beautiful, was now a shattered, burning shell, a ruin of what had once been. Everything around her was dying; her world was coming to an end. Nicky grabbed her wrist, his blood soaking into the lace at her cuff and smearing her skin; his eyes glazed with pain, and he begged her to help him. He was sobbing, his words catching in his throat as the blood bubbled from his lips.

“Anna…if you love me…in God’s name, please…please…make it stop!”

And Anna, sixteen years old and with her childhood irrevocably lost to her forever, her chest heaving with sobs of her own, had lifted the still-loaded pistol that she held, rested the barrel against Nicolas’s forehead, and, almost blinded by tears, she had pulled the trigger…

The child in her was dead, had died that day with Nicolas and Claremont.

That moment had haunted her dreams every night for the last ten years.

She would be damned if she allowed it to happen again.

***

Hornblower was there at the rail, a borrowed cutlass in his hand, waving it above his head. His shout rang out across the noise from the gun deck. “Hotspurs, to me!”

With a great roar, the main body of the crew surged towards the side, clambering up and over and grabbing for the Liberté, so close that her netting and rigging made convenient and easy hand-holds. The men on the frigate’s deck, those that were still standing and still making some attempt at defence, did their best to repel the boarders, but the Hotspurs were nothing if not determined. They swarmed over Liberté’s rail and onto the deck, plunging into the fray with the enthusiasm of men who knew that they had the advantage.

***

Bush dragged himself up and over the side of the Liberté, the effort making his head swim.

It seemed like only moments since they had escaped from the frigate, and now, here he was, throwing himself to the lions once again. Liberté creaked and groaned – it was evident that there must be men below on the pumps as she was presently keeping to something approaching an even keel, though she listed alarmingly from time to time, but she could not stay afloat forever. Bush was cold, soaked and exhausted from his last experience in the water, and had no desire to repeat it, but there was unfinished business here. He had to go on.

A cry grabbed his attention as his feet touched the deck – a woman’s cry. “Anna?” Christ, had she followed him? Would she never listen? He looked around, through the smoke and chaos surrounding him, only to see, not Anna, but another familiar figure struggling in du Vallon’s grip. As his heart lightened for a moment as he realised that Anna was still safe aboard Hotspur, it sank again as he recognised the woman in du Vallon’s grasp, dark hair spilling around her face: Salomé. So Anna had not made her foolish gesture alone. Bush was astonished both by the bravery of the women and also by their stupidity. He could not doubt that both had great courage, but to throw themselves into such danger…sheer lunacy.

Du Vallon struck Salomé across the forehead with the pistol he held – she slumped forwards into his arms, blood running freely from her temple. Bush must have shouted, he realised, as the next moment the colonel had looked up, and their eyes met. Du Vallon smiled. He raised the pistol – Bush’s instincts must still be driving his tired body, as he was throwing himself aside almost before he was aware of having moved. The pistol went off, the ball missing him by inches. He hit the deck hard, rolled, and got to his feet just in time to parry the downward swing from a French seaman’s sword. Reflexively, Bush cut and stabbed upwards – the man screamed and fell forwards, almost toppling Bush as the blade of the cutlass lodged between his ribs. The blade was stuck fast – Bush pulled on it, but to no avail. He pushed the man aside, eyes sweeping the deck for another weapon.

There was a shout, and he looked up to see du Vallon discarding the spent pistol in disgust. The colonel took a tighter hold on Salomé, who was recovering and beginning to fight once more, and pulled her towards the companionway that led to the middle gun deck.

Snatching up the closest weapon to hand, a musket belonging to a fallen marine, Bush gave chase.

***

“Anna!”

She was pulling a gun from the hand of a fallen rating, and glanced up at her name. Her face was set, determined, her jaw clenched defiantly. “Don’t try to stop me, Mr Kennedy.”

“Anna - ” Even as he said her name, Kennedy knew that to try and dissuade her would be pointless. He recognised too much of himself in her, saw shades of the headstrong young man from the Renown, the Archie who had without hesitation turned back to support a friend sent to his certain death; who had leapt from a cliff when it was the only way out.

“Du Vallon has already murdered one man I loved. I will not let him kill another!” She straightened, stuffing the pistol into her belt. “William has gone after him, so I am going after William. Will you try to stop me?”

Kennedy knew that he should, knew that he should by rights sling her over his shoulder and carry her down to the orlop where she would be safe from the fighting, but he understood her motives, he knew that scores had to be settled, and knew that there would be no satisfaction to be gained from watching others settle them. She needed to be in at the kill, and nothing he could say would change that.

And he had every right to demand the same himself. Memories of the dark, dirty cell on the lower deck of La Guerre, when he had barely the room to move, chained up and in agony from constant rounds of ‘persuasion’, rose unbidden to the surface. Du Vallon had much to pay for, and it was time to exact that which was due to them.

“Well?” Anna asked.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Miss Maitland,” Kennedy said with a tight smile, “I’m coming with you.”

***

Bush followed as fast as he could as du Vallon dragged Salomé below decks, his lungs burning after their torture underwater. It was an effort to push himself on, to stop his legs from turning to rubber and depositing him on the Liberté’s pitching deck, but he kept going. He had to keep going.

“Stop there, du Vallon!” he shouted. “Stop or I shoot!” The musket was a heavy and unwieldy weapon for one more used to a pistol, but it could inflict considerably more damage. He propped himself against the bulkhead, resting the stock of the gun in the crook of his uninjured shoulder.

Du Vallon halted, gripping the still-struggling Salomé even tighter. There was blood running down her face, but Bush could discern no fear there, only defiance. The colonel sneered at the musket Bush was pointing at him. “You would not do it. Risk hitting this Royalist bitch? You are too soft, lieutenant!”

“You know nothing about me,” Bush said grimly, shifting the musket slightly, sighting along the barrel. From here he could get a clear shot at du Vallon, but if the man should move…

“I know that you are an Englishman, with an Englishman’s misplaced sense of decency. You would not risk harming her, though she is the whelp of a traitor to the Republic!” du Vallon spat at him. “You would save the life of a whore like this, who should have been killed with her father, her blood justly spilled for the glory of the Revolution - ”

“That’s enough!” barked Bush, his finger twitching on the trigger. “I’ll listen to no more filth from your mouth, du Vallon!”

“Then shoot me, mon ami.” There was that familiar predatory smile on du Vallon’s face once more, as he pulled Salomé to him, pressing her tight against his body. She tried to squirm away, but he held her tight, his cheek pressed against hers. There was revulsion in her expression now – Bush suddenly recalled Kennedy’s words in the hold, remembered the brief but vivid picture they had conjured of du Vallon’s depravity in France, the horror of the depths he was willing to sink to. What had this man already done to Salomé? “Shoot me, Monsieur Bush,” du Vallon said, the smile widening, “but rest assured, I shall take her with me.”

“Kill him.” Salomé’s voice was faint, but grew in strength as she continued, fire in her eyes, “Kill him – he is already damned. My life matters little to me – he destroyed it long ago.”

Du Vallon stroked her hair, and she shuddered. “Oh, we are not to be separated so easily, ma petite. Your father debased himself before me, pleaded for his life, and so will you.”

Salomé’s dark eyes met Bush’s desperately, flashing with fury. “Avenge my father, monsieur! Send his murderer to burn in hell!”

It was an impossible decision to make. Bush hesitated, his finger poised on the trigger of the musket, just as he had done below decks on Hotspur months ago when Wolfe had threatened Hornblower. Then, as now, he had been paralysed, no idea what he should do. If he fired, an enemy would perish, but would take an innocent with him. How could he make that decision? Not for the first time, Bush wished he had Hornblower’s ability to instinctively know the right course of action. His brain was telling him one thing, his heart another.

He hesitated, and du Vallon took the opportunity. Before he realised what was happening, the Frenchman had launched himself across the deck, throwing Salomé ahead of him. Bush was reaching out to catch her almost reflexively, but she fell aside, and du Vallon was tearing the musket from his slackened grip. Taken by surprise, reactions dulled by renewed pain and exhaustion, Bush had no time to fight, or even prepare himself as the musket butt was slammed into his wounded shoulder. Howling in agony, he reached out almost blindly for du Vallon, but the gun hit him again under the chin, and then on the side of the head, and he felt himself falling like a stone to the deck, his mouth filling with blood from his bitten tongue. He lay there, the world spinning around him for several moments before everything was swallowed up in blackness.

***

“You have killed him!”

Salomé gasped as Bush collapsed in a crumpled heap at her feet. She bent down, trying to discern whether he was indeed dead – his face was a mask of blood and bruises, a trickle running from one corner of his mouth. He did not respond to her touch on his face. Salomé’s heart clenched. Poor Anna. The only man she had loved since Nicholas de Marcharant, killed by the same monster that had murdered him. Salomé might not have been at Claremont when it was destroyed, but she knew every detail of what had occurred there, and she had wept for it. Her father, her ancestral home, her family, all ruined and defiled by one man…she had vowed there and then, young as she had been, that du Vallon would one day pay for what he had done.

A grip of iron on the back of her collar dragged her to her feet. Du Vallon flung her against the bulkhead, stepping carelessly over Bush’s body and looming over her. “I may not yet be master of your cousin, little one, but I will be master of you, make no mistake,” he whispered. “I will have you, and you will beg for mercy.”

“Never in a thousand years,” she hissed. “I would rather die!”

“Oh you shall, cherie, you shall, when I am done with you.” He smiled wolfishly, and ran a finger down the side of her face. “Then you will wish for death.” His hand slid down, fumbling for the buttons on her breeches.

Salomé closed her eyes, her own fingers reaching into the pocket of her jacket. Du Vallon’s breath was hot on her face, his body pressed hard against hers – her stomach twisted with disgust, but she willed herself not to pull away. As her fingers closed over the blade she had secreted in the lining of her jacket, she knew that the years of horror and uncertainty were finally at an end. She would complete the task she had been sent to England to do.

“I will make you beg on your knees before me, just like your father,” du Vallon told her, his face in her hair, as his hand slipped into her waistband…

“I think not,” said a voice behind him. Before Salomé could move, there was a gunshot, and du Vallon was spinning away from her, clutching his shoulder. Through the sudden haze of smoke, she could make out Kennedy at the foot of the companionway, Anna behind him, a pistol in his hand.

“You think this will stop me, Kennedy?” du Vallon asked from the deck. After a moment, he was clambering to his feet, one hand clasped to the shoulder of his coat, which was pooling with blood. “You will have to do better than that. Poor Monsieur Bush tried, but had not the stomach.” He nudged Bush with the toe of his boot, but Bush did not react.

Horror blossomed on Anna’s face as she saw him. “Will! Oh, dear God…” She would have run to him, but Kennedy held her back.

Du Vallon laughed. “A poor dog put out of its misery. I have done you a favour, cherie, just as I did once before. Men who are not worthy of you, they have nothing to live for, no purpose in being kept alive. I could show you so much more - ”

Another shot rang out, and du Vallon was falling back once more. Anna’s expression was set with determination as she lowered the pistol. Du Vallon lay on the deck again; blood running from his mouth, but the smile had not left his face.

“You cannot kill me, cherie. You tried that once before, and yet here I am. The devil protects me!”

He was, incredibly, getting to his feet again, the front of his waistcoat a bloody mess, one arm hanging limply at his side. Salomé watched him in amazement as he staggered towards Anna and Kennedy. Dear God, had the stories been true? Could he really not be killed? Du Vallon raised his uninjured arm, standing before them, his face still set in a rictus grin.

“Do you not understand?” His voice was thick, blood bubbling through his lips with every word. “I cannot die!”

***

As he reached Liberté’s deck, Hornblower was astonished to find her captain, dishevelled and despairing, running towards him. The man was panicked, his eyes wide with fear, as he offered Horatio his sword without even having been asked for it.

“Capitane, I surrender!” he babbled, wringing his hands. “Please, please, take us from this godforsaken ship – we are sinking! We will all drown!”

***

“I am indestructible,” du Vallon declared.

Anna stared in horror at the grisly vision before her. He had been shot in the shoulder and the stomach, and still he stood; still he lived…it surely should not have been possible. No mortal man could sustain such words and yet stand there before her, unbowed, barely affected…She looked at the pistol in her hand, but it was empty, useless – there was nothing more she could do, unless…her eye fell on the musket discarded on the deck, barely three feet from where William lay. Her heart clenched and her stomach twisted as she looked at him, wanting more than anything to go to his side but unable to do so. Was he still alive? She had no way of telling.

“So you sold your soul to the devil,” Kennedy was saying, contempt lacing every word. “Always assuming you had one to sell in the first place, which somehow I doubt very much. You are an abomination, du Vallon. Your very presence here taints the Earth.”

“You are the same as me, mon ami,” du Vallon purred, “I know what you have done over the years since the devil saw fit to return you to life. You were granted your resurrection in exchange for your service, a service to be given at any cost.”

“I am nothing like you.” But despite his words, Kennedy had blanched.

That smile still twisted du Vallon’s face, a death’s head grin from a nightmare. It had haunted Anna’s dreams for years, come to her in the darkest, loneliest hours of the night, when her memories returned to torment her. “I believe that you are. All has not been loyalty and duty with you, has it, Kennedy? Or should I say ‘Devereaux’? There is blood on your hands. They will never be clean.”

Kennedy raised an eyebrow. “‘Out, damned spot’?” he quoted. “I don’t think so. I bear enough guilt in my soul for what I’ve been forced to do. You don’t even know the meaning of the word. I still bear the scars from what you did to me.” He pulled at the hem of his shirt, ripping open his waistcoat and lifting the fabric to reveal his chest – Anna gasped to see the multitude of scars there, criss-crossing his ribcage again and again, some cuts, some burns, others that she could not even identify. It was the body of a man who had been tortured, and brutally. Kennedy’s face was set, his blue eyes like ice. “I survived,” he said. “The others weren’t so lucky.”

Du Vallon was laughing, the sound gurgling horribly in his shattered chest. “You should have talked, mon ami. Is loyalty to the men who would have hanged you really worth so much?”

“Unlike you, du Vallon, I still have my integrity. You wouldn’t understand.”

“The blindness of the English! You are all like sheep, following as the flock runs over the cliff. You are fools!”

Anna looked again at the musket. Was it even possible that she could reach it without du Vallon noticing? She took a surreptitious step towards it, then another.

Du Vallon turned on her in a flash. “I think not, cherie.” A bloody hand closed on her shoulder like a vice, whirling her about. The other took hold of her chin, titling her face up towards his. She tried to look away, but he held her firm, fingers digging into her flesh. “I vowed I would have you, that no other man should touch you and live, and so I shall. Kneel! Kneel before me! You shall know your master!” He was pushing her – Anna’s knees buckled under the pressure, until she was kneeling on the deck, the wood hard and unyielding beneath her. “Prostrate yourself before me!” du Vallon shrieked, his grip cutting into her shoulder as he continued to push, determined to grind her down. Anna could not fight back against him, though she tried, simply without the strength to free herself. His vice rose to a piercing crescendo: “OBEY ME!!!”

“NO!!!”

Anna found herself pitching forwards onto the deck as the grip on her shoulder was quite suddenly gone. Righting herself desperately, she looked up to see that Salomé had appeared almost from nowhere – her cousin and du Vallon stood frozen, the tall, arrogant colonel and the tiny dark-haired woman, for several moments, Salomé holding du Vallon against her body almost as a lover might. But there was nothing of the lover in the cold, hard expression on Salomé’s face as she gradually pulled away from the embrace, and Anna could see the hilt of the knife protruding from du Vallon’s chest. Salomé had driven the stiletto up under his breastbone, and deep into his heart. Du Vallon stared at her in amazement.

“I…am…your master…!” he proclaimed, blood bubbling over his lips with every word. “You cannot…kill me…! You…cannot…”

Salomé, contempt written in every line of her face, pulled the knife free, and du Vallon crumpled to the deck. “And so my father is avenged,” she said. “By sending his murderer to burn, so I exact payment for his death.” Bending over du Vallon, one foot on his chest, she slowly and deliberately spat in his face. “It is ended.”

Du Vallon did not move, his eyes staring sightlessly up at the deck above, astonishment at his own mortality etched on his face. Death had come as a complete surprise to him. He had still not believed it, even at the end.

Slowly, Anna stood, grateful for the hand Kennedy placed on her elbow, her legs shaking. He guided her past du Vallon’s body to where Bush lay, white and unmoving, by the bulkhead. Anna crouched beside him. There was blood soaking into the shoulder of his shirt from the old wound that had opened once again; his face was a patchwork of more blood that ran from a new gash on the side of his head, dark in the dim light from the lanterns. Between the blood and the bruises he was barely recognisable. Gently she stroked his face, caressing his cheek, but there was no response. “Will?” she said quietly, “Will, wake up, love. Please?”

Kennedy was there beside her, bending over his friend. “He’s still breathing,” he reported, relief evident on his face. “We have to get him back aboard the Hotspur right away.”

“But how are we to do that? Surely we cannot carry him - ” Shock and anxiety were clouding Anna’s thoughts – in her confusion, she could not see a way out.

“We’ll have to. I’m sure we can manage between us.” There was a determined light in Kennedy’s eyes, but before he could even attempt to lift Bush, footsteps clattered on the companionway and Hornblower appeared, sword drawn, Styles at his heels.

He took in du Vallon’s body and the gory knife in Salomé’s hand without comment, turning instead to Kennedy. “The crew have surrendered – they’ve abandoned the pumps. We have to get off immediately before she goes down.” As if on cue, the Liberté’s timbers creaked ominously.

Kennedy nodded. “Help me with Bush.”

“No need for that, sir.” Styles was pushing past Hornblower, crouching beside Anna. “I’ll take ‘im.” Without waiting for a reply, he had hefted Bush into his arms with no more effort than one would use to lift a sack of corn and was bearing him off up the steps, heading above decks.

“Come on.” Kennedy was hurrying after him, guiding Anna by the arm.

As she reached the foot of the ladder, Hornblower behind her, she realised that someone was missing. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Salomé bent over du Vallon, desperately rummaging through his layers of clothing. “Salomé, leave him!” Anna called, “We have to leave before the ship sinks! Du Vallon is dead – there is no need for us all to die with him!”

“I have to find it,” Salomé was muttering, “I must find it!”

Hornblower exchanged a glance with Kennedy. Releasing his hold on Anna’s arm, Archie crossed swiftly to Salomé’s side. Anna could not hear the words he said to her, but Salomé’s face was furious as she continued to search the corpse.

“Sir!” Styles’s voice came sharply from above. “Hurry, sir, there ain’t much time!”

Hornblower hurried Anna up the steps. She did not look back, her concern no longer for the past, only for the living. As she emerged into the light, she could not take her eyes from Bush’s pale face as his head lolled against Styles’s shoulder. “Don’t die,” she whispered, “Please, God, don’t die…”

TBC


	27. Chapter Twenty-Five

“You have my congratulations, gentlemen.” Admiral Pellew glanced down at the two books that lay open on the polished surface of the great round table before him. “Well done, Hornblower - a remarkable achievement.”

“Thank you, sir,” Hornblower replied, exchanging a glance with Kennedy. Archie was looking a little uncomfortable to be back on Admiralty soil, on official business. “But the honours should really go to Mr K – Mr Devereaux, and Mr Bush, rather than myself.” With a grimace that provoked a smile from Archie, he added, “I played little part in the proceedings.”

“And much of the credit should go to Mademoiselle St Saint Clair,” Kennedy added, directing the smile at Salomé, who sat beside him, hands folded primly in her lap. Dressed neatly in blue muslin, her hair tied back from her face, she barely resembled the blood-stained virago who had stabbed du Vallon with such deadly precision. Hornblower could hardly believe, when she had arrived aboard Hotspur afterwards, the journal clenched triumphantly in one bloody hand, that she was the same woman who had silently haunted the rooms of Hanover Square. She sat straight, her head held high, confidence replacing the shyness and timidity of before. Evidently a consummate actress, Horatio wondered how much her family really knew about her, and how far she had deceived them in her determination to see her father avenged. He knew that he would not like to be on the wrong side of her.

“Britain counts herself in your debt, mademoiselle,” Pellew told her now, “She thanks you for your loyalty.”

“All debts have been discharged,” Salomé replied crisply, her English heavily accented but perfect. “I have completed my part of the bargain. Once they have the necessary information from the journal, the other members of the League will do the rest.”

“As will the British government, I assure you.” Pellew picked up one of the books, examining the cover. “Thanks to this, a great deal of suspected treachery will finally be proved.”

Ten minutes later, when Salomé had departed, and the marines outside the door dismissed, Pellew turned to Kennedy and Hornblower.

“I cannot deny that it is a pleasure to see you both here, together once more,” he said, a twinkle in his eye.

They glanced at each other, and neither could suppress the smile that crept onto their faces.

Pellew watched them indulgently for a moment before his expression became serious. “However, I am sure you understand, Mr Hornblower, why I did not inform you of Mr Kennedy’s survival.”

Hornblower nodded. “I believe so, sir.”

“We could not risk a threat to Mr Kennedy’s cover. Even now, his presence is still to remain a closely guarded secret. It is fortunate that he has been operating on the continent, and is not well known here, but we must be careful,” Pellew said gravely. “There are still colleagues of du Vallon’s at large, both here and in France. It will take some time to mop up the remains of their filthy little operation, but Mademoiselle Saint Clair and her friends will give us every assistance.”

Hornblower’s confusion must have shown on his face, as Archie said, “They have all been wronged by du Vallon and his friends at some time or another, and are hungry for revenge. And they’ll get it. They have infinite patience.”

“I can believe that,” Hornblower told him, thinking of Salomé and her single-mindedness. She had waited for nearly ten years, biding her time until the right opportunity presented itself.

“And Mr Kennedy will assist them where he can. He has done sterling work. You both have,” said Pellew. He looked at them both sternly, before a smile broke over his face. “Very well done, gentlemen,” he said again, “Very well done indeed.”

There was an uncomfortable pause, all of them thinking of the person who should have been there to take credit for his part in the action. The grave look was back on the admiral’s face as he said, “How is Mr Bush?”

***

“This place looks like a prison,” Kennedy said, looking up at the imposing red brick building before them.

On Hotspur’s return to port, Doctor Stewart had wasted no time in having Bush transferred to the hospital across the water at Haslar. Almost four days had passed since Styles had carried him into the sickbay, more dead than alive, and Bush had still not regained consciousness. Even after twenty-four hours, Stewart’s concern was plain to all, and it seemed that in this instance the surgeon was not confident of his own skill. “It is time to place Mr Bush in the hands of more experienced men than I now,” he had said, “We must trust to the Almighty. We must have faith in his wisdom.” Hornblower was far more inclined to put his trust in the medical men than a nebulous higher power, but he refrained from saying so. They were all trying to remain hopeful, and if Stewart found his faith a comfort it was not for his captain to deny him, whatever his personal inclinations.

“It’s to deter deserters,” he replied now, glancing at the hospital building and seeing what Archie meant – the barred windows on the ground floor and the constant patrols of soldiers in the grounds were somewhat intimidating to say the least.

“It’s enough to deter anyone,” Kennedy muttered.

There was a comfortable silence between them as they walked together up the drive towards the front steps. It was almost like old times, but Hornblower couldn’t help but be aware of the changes time had wrought in both of them. The Archie walking by his side now had grown up, was less dependent on their friendship than before. The same could be said of himself, Horatio mused – with Archie’s loss, he had become closer to Bush than might otherwise have been the case, relying on William’s loyalty and companionship. That would not change now that Archie had, for however long, returned. And Archie himself was no longer the boy he had still to some extent been on Renown, scarred and hardened by his experiences. When they returned to Hotspur, after they had watched Liberté sink finally beneath the waves, taking La Guerre with her, the two of them had talked for a long time. It soon became clear to Horatio that things would never be the same as they had been before Renown – Renown had changed them all, for better or worse.

“What will you do now, Archie?” he asked, glancing across at his friend. Kennedy was looking upwards, craning to make out the allegorical carving above the door. “Will you stay in England?”

Kennedy shrugged. “Until Pellew decides to send me elsewhere. I’ve been working with the League for some time, and there’s still plenty to be done, loose ends to tie up. Half of du Vallon’s men are scattered through Europe, and we need to find them. And it’ll be a long time until my name is cleared, if that ever happens.”

“There must surely be something the admiral can do, especially after everything you’ve done for him.”

“The Lords of the Admiralty have long memories, Horatio. They’d look at me, a convicted mutineer, and hang me as soon as blink.”

“So you’ll be skulking around spying for the rest of your life? There’s no honour in that, Archie.”

“It’s what I’ve been used to these last few years.” Kennedy sighed, and then turned to Hornblower with a smile as they climbed the steps. “Come on – put on a cheerful face for Anna. She needs our support.”

Hornblower shook his head, remembering the sight of Bush lying bloodied and lifeless in Hotspur’s sickbay. For the second time in a few weeks, his first lieutenant’s life hung in the balance. He couldn’t help wondering, following Archie into the hospital, whether they should prepare themselves for the worst.

***

The ward was a side one reserved for officers – Anna was sitting alone when they entered, the muslin dress that had replaced her borrowed male clothes making her an almost ethereal figure that seemed to glow in the dim light.

All the beds were empty but for one – its occupant was still, his head bandaged and his face almost as pale as the pillow against which it lay. The bruises were stark on skin that seemed almost like marble. Kennedy felt guilty at having been responsible for at least one of them, remembering how he had lashed out at William behind the theatre – he couldn’t help wondering why Bush had not hit him in that moment of madness that overtook them both. Memories rose, unbidden…the dark, nightmarish cockpit of the Renown, coming round in pain and confusion, searching desperately for something familiar, for a friendly face…seeing Bush, bandaged and helpless beside him, heart jolting as he wondered whether his friend was still alive…relief flooding through him, despite his own agony, when Bush opened one eye and winked at him…

It had been hell, but they had come through it. But now…four days was a long time to be unconscious, and the doctors were not hopeful.

Anna had not abandoned Bush, however, and was constantly at his side despite the vociferous protests from the medical men that the hospital was no place for a lady. His hand lay clasped in hers, as if she believed she could somehow anchor him to this world and stop him slipping away. At the sound of their footsteps she raised her head and smiled.

“Mr Hornblower. Mr Kennedy. Good of you to come.”

“We could hardly not have come.” Kennedy sat down in the chair on the opposite side of the bed. Hornblower remained standing behind him. “How is he today?”

Anna considered for a moment before she said, “The doctors don’t believe me, but I think he may be a little better. I swear he tried to open his eyes this morning. They just want to leave him, but he’s fighting, I know he is.”

Kennedy smiled. “He never gives up on anything without a fight.”

Anna squeezed Bush’s hand. It did not even provoke a flicker of the eyelids in response. “I couldn’t bear the last words between us to have been exchanged in anger,” she said quietly.

“It won’t come to that.”

“You sound very sure, Mr Kennedy.”

“Archie, please. And as a man who has returned from the dead, I believe I speak from experience,” he said, the smile widening into a grin.

Anna smiled slightly before turning her attention back to the bed. It was quite obvious where her sole concern lay. To Kennedy’s knowledge, she had not even seen her mother, spending every waking hour at Bush’s bedside. Mrs Maitland and the marquise had travelled down from London as soon as the news of du Vallon’s death had reached them. Richard Maitland remained behind, doing his best to untangle his father-in-law’s affairs. By all accounts, the marquis was a broken man, shunned by his wife and daughter, unable to face anyone. He sat alone in his library with a bottle, eating little and refusing to admit the servants even to lay a fire. The man had made so many mistakes, his inbred arrogance and blinkered view of the world sending him headlong down the road to ruin.

Evening drew on, and Hornblower had to leave, to return home and assure his wife that he was indeed all right. Kennedy still couldn’t imagine Horatio married. Ever since his friend had told him, during that seemingly endless talk on their voyage back to Portsmouth, Archie had been trying to imagine Mrs Horatio Hornblower, but all his imagination threw up was a strange amalgamation of the poor French girl Horatio had once befriended and Kitty Cobham. He could only hope that she was a good woman who loved and understood him. He deserved nothing less. Glancing across at Anna, he mused that he would soon be the only one left a bachelor. It was funny – had anyone asked him, he would have confidently told them that either Bush or Hornblower would be the last to wed, most probably Bush. If ever a man had seemed married to the sea, it was William.

“What will you do now?” Anna asked him suddenly, lifting her eyes from Bush’s face for the first time in an hour. “Where will you go?”

Kennedy stretched. “Wherever the admiral sees fit to send me. It’s safer for me to be out of the country and away from the navy – here there’s always a risk of someone recognising me. Kingston’s still too recent in people’s minds. I’m still a convicted mutineer, a man who pushed his captain, pushed him to his death.”

“What rubbish. Will told me – the Spaniards killed Captain Sawyer.”

“Their Lordships don’t see it that way. If Sawyer hadn’t fallen, he would probably not have been in his cabin, and he might have survived.” He shrugged. “Twisted logic, perhaps, but someone had to take the blame.”

“William also told me that he didn’t believe you pushed the captain,” Anna said, watching him carefully. Her eyes were dark blue in the lamplight.

“William wasn’t there,” Kennedy retorted. “Please don’t go any further down that road, Anna. What happened on Renown is dead and buried in Kingston – let’s leave it there. Please.”

Her gaze held his for a long moment, before she nodded.

“What will you do?” he asked after a pause.

She sighed. “Go back to London, I suppose, try to pick up the pieces. My family will need me.” Her thumb was almost unconsciously caressing Bush’s knuckles as she held his hand between hers. Her eyes had drifted back to his face. He looked quite peaceful, as if he were merely sleeping.

“Others need you too, you know,” Archie said gently.

It was some time before she answered. When she did, her voice was very quiet. “Do they?”

“Yes, they do. You must know that.”

A small laugh escaped her, but there was little humour in it. “I told him that I loved him, you know. I told him.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing. Carried on as if I’d never spoken.”

Kennedy couldn’t help smiling. “Anna, the middle of a battle is not the best time to tell someone that you love them.”

She glared at him. “He could have said something! Some response…but just to ignore it…”

“Knowing William, I doubt if he would have known what to say. He’s never been the most demonstrative of men.” Archie sat forwards on the chair, trying to hold her gaze. “Look, Anna, I know you think little of me, and I know I may be too flippant for my own good, but I’m not blind. I can see how much he cares for you. Yes, he’s a stubborn, pig-headed fool sometimes, and he can’t see what’s happening right under his nose, but there aren’t many men of my acquaintance who would punch a hole through a wall in frustration because someone they loved was in danger and they could do nothing to help. And he loves you, Anna, I know he does.”

She was silent for several moments once more. Eventually, he thought he could see her mouth twitch, a smile trying to curve her lips. “Did he really do that?” she asked. “Punch a hole through a wall?”

He grinned. “Why do you think Liberté sank? Your William just doesn’t realise his own strength!”

Anna was trying to fight it, but to no avail. She laughed, and this time it was genuine. “I couldn’t leave him,” she said. “To walk away, to never see him, never hear his voice again…I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t lose him. I can’t lose him!” Her voice cracked and broke into a sob. Archie was out of his chair and offering a handkerchief before she could wave him away. “It’s all right,” she insisted, wiping ineffectually with her sleeve at the tears that were spilling down her cheeks, “It’s all right, leave me, I’ll be fine…”

He pressed the handkerchief into her fingers. “You don’t have to make excuses,” he told her, “Not to me. I understand.”

She swallowed hard. “I can’t lose him. I can’t go through that again. It nearly killed me the last time. I lost one man I loved to du Vallon…I won’t lose another!”

“You won’t.” Kennedy squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. “If you want to blame anyone for this, blame me. It was my fault he took that tumble from the horse. If it hadn’t been for that he might not be lying here now.” It was true, he knew it was. If Bush hadn’t cracked his head in the first place, du Vallon’s blows might not have had such a devastating effect. And if he hadn’t encouraged William to leave London, to make that hell-for-leather journey across country, if he hadn’t needed him and the Hotspur, if he hadn’t always put his mission first…

“You’re wrong, you know,” Anna said softly, dabbing at her swollen eyes with the handkerchief. “I don’t think little of you. Quite the opposite, in fact. I may have been suspicious of your motives to begin with, but you have proved your worth a thousand times over.”

He shook his head. “You flatter me, but thank you.”

She looked at the still figure in the bed once more, and sniffed. “He blamed himself for your death. For God’s sake, don’t start blaming yourself for his.”

Kennedy looked, too. Bush lay there like an effigy on a tomb. Only the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath the sheets indicated that there was still life within the battered shell of his friend. “He’s not dead yet, Anna,” Archie said.

Her head was bowed. “I know,” she whispered, “I know.”

***

“Miss Maitland, I really must insist that you go home and rest, ma’am. I appreciate your concern, but I assure you that we will send word should there be any change during the night.”

Anna did not turn to look at the doctor, a small, red-faced man in a neat tie-wig whom she had come to dislike almost from the first – his abrupt manner and patronising tone had irritated her from the moment she had first watched him examine William, when he had tried to shut her out of the ward. He bent over the bed, plump fingers probing the head injuries less than gently, and declared that all they could do was wait and see. Incensed, Anna demanded a second opinion – such was the authority in her manner that she got it, but the little man had continued to make frequent appearances. He was also the most vocal opponent to her presence at Bush’s bedside, which had endeared him to her even less.

“I am quite comfortable, thank you, doctor,” she informed him, investing her words with all the haughtiness of her rank that she could manage. She rarely used her background to influence anyone, finding it distasteful, but in this instance she had swiftly decided that the man deserved it. “I will inform you should I become tired and require a cab.”

The doctor sighed sharply, obviously frustrated. “Madam, I cannot allow you to stay overnight in the hospital!”

Now she did turn, and fixed him with a deliberately disdainful gaze, as though she were regarding a slug. “Then you will have to call upon some of your soldiers to physically remove me, as I am going nowhere.”

“Madam, I - ”

“You may protest all you wish. I am staying here,” she said firmly, and turned her attention back to the bed.

“I shall be speaking to my superiors, Miss Maitland, you may be sure of that,” the little man declared.

“In which case, please inform them that they may take up the subject with Admiral Pellew,” Anna retorted. “Now, if you can do nothing for Mr Bush, will you please leave me in peace?”

Muttering, the doctor withdrew, footsteps clacking down the corridor until they turned a corner and faded into the distance. Anna drew her chair closer to the bed, bending her head close and reaching out to gently stroke the dark curls that lay tumbled on the pillow. William’s sisters had been sent word that morning, but it would take time for them to arrange transport from Chichester. She only hoped that they would arrive before…she swallowed against the lump that was quite suddenly there in her throat once more, blinking furiously at the new tears that spiked behind her eyes. It would do no good to cry, no good at all. What use were tears? She had to remain strong, for his sake, she had to have faith.

Her fingers trailed down the side of his face, brushing his cheek. She had never noticed how long his eyelashes were before, or how his hair curled about his ears. It was almost as if her eyes, her memory, were trying to take in every detail of his face, to capture every last curve and laughter line, in case…in case she were never to see it again…

She shook her head sharply. No. She would not think like that.

“Only get better, Will,” she said softly, “We can’t let him win. Come back to us, please. We all need you. I need you.” She leaned over, and pressed her lips to his forehead. “Please, love. I don’t want to have to live without you.”

***

It was quiet in the hospital, almost too quiet.

Anna was used to noise of some sort, whether it was the usual nocturnal sounds of the countryside, or the clatter and bustle of the metropolis, busy even during the hours of darkness. This almost silence, broken only by the occasional moan from a patient across the corridor, or the footsteps of the doctors as they made their rounds, was unnerving.

She dozed in the chair, waking momentarily and wondering where she was before exhaustion claimed her again and her head nodded, her grip on William’s hand slackening. Until now she had not realised how tired she was – she had barely slept in five days, adrenalin keeping her going through the battle, anxiety taking over and pushing her on once it was all over. Her mind felt numbed – she had been almost unable to react when Salomé sat with her and explained that she had been sent to England by a League of Royalist rebels, intent on tracking down the men responsible for their persecution; that she had been trained as a spy, and had been working for them ever since her father’s death. It all seemed too fantastic to take in.

A footstep, loud on the landing, startled her awake. She glanced at the bed mechanically, a movement that was now almost a reflex action. William had not moved; the steady, soft sigh of his breathing a familiar sound, comforting to her ears. She had come to cling to that sound, knowing that as long as she could hear it he was still with her.

Anna straightened, blinking away the sleep that clung, sticky, to her eyelids. The lamp had been turned down, the light in the room now barely a glow. She wondered what the time was. Kennedy had left some time ago, reaching into his pocket and handing her a sealed letter as he rose from his seat. Anna looked at the letter, baffled by the unfamiliar handwriting, but he had revealed nothing, merely giving her shoulder and squeeze and flashing her a smile before departing with a promise to return in the morning.

Now she looked at the letter again. Leaning over and turning up the lamp a little, she broke the seal and unfolded the paper. The flowery script within read:

‘Miss Katherine Cobham, on behalf of her good friend Mrs Elizabeth Wakefield, invites Miss Anna Maitland and Mr William Bush to a performance of Mr Goldsmith’s play She Stoops to Conquer at the Drury Lane Theatre on a night convenient to them.

Miss Cobham anticipates a convivial evening; and the opportunity to discuss old times over a glass of sherry following the performance. She very much hopes that Mr Bush will enjoy his first theatrical experience.’

Anna shook her head, perplexed. She put the letter aside, determined to question Archie about it in the morning. Kitty Cobham was the toast of the West End, but she could not imagine what a famous actress would have to do with the kindly Mrs Wakefield. And what did she mean by ‘old times’? Anna had never met Miss Cobham in her life, and she could not believe that William was in the habit of consorting with actresses…but Mrs Wakefield had seemed somehow familiar, and her husband had known William…no, surely Miss Cobham had not been…

It was no good. She couldn’t think straight. Her mind was too full of fog. She sat back in the chair, the letter abandoned in her lap. Maybe things would become clearer with the daylight.

She must have dozed again, as when she next opened her eyes the lamp had burned down and sunlight was beginning to creep through the blinds that shrouded the tall windows. The regular tap of shoes on the floor brought her to full consciousness as the tall, spare figure of one of the doctors approached down the ward. Relieved that it was not his antagonistic colleague, Anna sat up, brushing a hand over her skirts in an effort to smooth away the creases. He gave her a smile, and a slight shake of the head.

“You will make yourself ill, Miss Maitland, if you do not rest,” he said, but his tone was gently chiding rather than hectoring. “One patient in this business is enough, do you not think so?”

“I will not leave until he wakes, doctor. I am determined in that,” Anna replied, daring him to oppose her.

“So I understand. I cannot help but be concerned for your reputation, however. A hospital is no place for a woman of your standing, and propriety - ”

Anna bristled. “You may hang propriety - ” she began, but her sentence was finished for her.

“ – from the nearest yardarm,” came the merest whisper. It was barely audible, but to Anna it rang out clear as any bell. Hardly daring to hope, she spun round in her chair, leaning over the bed.

Bush was moving for the first time in days, his head shifting on the pillow. He mumbled something beneath his breath, words that she couldn’t make out, his eyelids flickering. After a moment they fluttered open, and unfocussed blue eyes were regarding her in confusion.

“Will,” she said gently, resting a hand on his arm, “Will, it’s Anna, love. Can you hear me?”

He stared blankly up at her for some long moments, and blinked several times, before his gaze finally cleared. He lifted a hand weakly – she caught it, pressing it to her cheek. A smile curved his mouth, and his thumb stroked the side of her face. “You’re safe,” he said softly, “Thank God.”

There was a polite cough from behind. “If I may, ma’am?” the doctor asked.

Reluctantly, Anna pulled away, but she retained her hold on William’s hand while the doctor made his examination. When at last he was satisfied he straightened, and smiled. “It is too early to tell completely, but I believe we shall do very well. I must insist that you do not over-tire Mr Bush, ma’am – he will need quiet and rest for some time if he is to recover.”

“I don’t know what he expected us to do,” Anna said when the man had left them alone.

The smile was still hovering around William’s lips. “Well, you did say to…hang propriety. Maybe he thought…”

“…that we might…?” She shot him a flirtatious glance. “Perhaps we could try.”

He laughed, and then groaned, closing his eyes. “I haven’t the strength.”

Anna bent her head and kissed him. After a second’s hesitation, he responded, his hand slipping from hers and sliding up the back of her neck to rest lightly in her hair, the strands twining about his fingers. It was a long kiss, Anna losing herself in the relief that was flooding through her, just concentrating on the scent of him, on his touch, the steady rise and fall of his chest against hers as they breathed almost as one.

At last it had to end. Gradually she drew away, until she could look him in the eyes. They were shadowed, watching her steadily. “Are you still angry with me?” she asked quietly.

For some time, he did not answer. He closed his eyes, and she feared that he had slipped away once more, but as she was about to call his name they opened again and he shook his head slightly. “No,” he said, “No, I should be, but what…would be the…point?”

“I’m sorry, if that means anything. I’m sorry I hurt you. But you do know why I had to do it, don’t you?”

There was a pause, as though he was considering his answer, before he eventually said, “Yes. Yes, I think I do. Is he…is he …”

“Dead? Yes, he’s dead. He won’t hurt any of us again,” Anna said fiercely.

He didn’t ask for any details. There would be time enough for that later. “Good,” was his only response. He lay quiet for some time, staring vaguely into the shadows of the ward. Anna was content to sit beside him, stroking his hair and knowing that just at that moment there was nowhere else in the world she would rather be.

The doctor returned to check on him, changing the dressings and asking several questions, to which he answered with a slight movement of his head, but he did not speak again for some time.

“I thought that…Horatio and…Archie were here,” he said at last. “Perhaps I dreamt it.”

“They were here, yesterday. They will be back this morning, I’m sure. You have had us all terribly worried, you know,” Anna told him, twisting a lock of his hair around her finger.

His gaze shifted to look at her. “Have you been here…all this time?”

She nodded. “Do you honestly think I could have left you?” When he looked sheepish, she could not help laughing. “Oh, Will! They would have had to drag me bodily away. In fact, I believe that some of the doctors considered doing just that. I have put my reputation on the line once again for you.”

“You should not, you know.” He sighed. “It’s not…right.”

“It’s no good. I’m a ruined woman now. A hopeless case. No one will have me.”

A pained expression crossed his face. “God, Anna, what the hell…have you done?” he groaned.

She grinned. “I don’t care, Will, I don’t give a damn what anyone thinks. Can you not understand that? There’s only one man I want.” She looked at him expectantly. When he did not reply, a slight frown embedded between his eyebrows, she laughed out loud. “Lord, Will, who do you think that man is?”

He blinked, his rattled brain evidently trying to work it out. Anna realised that he probably couldn’t remember what she had said to him on the quarterdeck before the boarding of the Liberté. “Do you mean…?”

“Yes, I do.” She bent her head and kissed him on the end of the nose. “I love you, William Bush, stubborn, short-sighted fool that you are. Will you make an honest woman of me?”

Pulling back a little, she saw that he was smiling. He shook his head a fraction, despairingly. “You have no shame at all.”

“None whatsoever. I told you that once before.”

“Is marrying you…the only…way to make you behave?” he asked wearily.

Her face was inches away from his, their noses touching. Anna rubbed the tip of her nose against his. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “Are you willing to take the risk to find out?”

He laughed. “Hoyden.”

“Stuffed shirt.”

“You’ll drive me…insane - you know that, don’t you?”

She was still grinning. “That’s the idea, yes.” Before he could say anything else she kissed him again. When they broke apart, she asked, “Do you love me?”

The pale blue eyes that met her gaze were cloudy but quite suddenly serious. “Yes,” he said. “God help me, yes, I do.” William took hold of her hand more tightly, clasping it between both his own. The familiar calluses were rough against her skin. “Miss Maitland,” he said with a formal air, “Would you do me the great honour…of becoming my wife?”

She was silent for some moments, until he began to look apprehensive. His face was on the verge of falling when she smiled, the biggest, happiest smile that she had worn for a long, long time. “Yes, Mr Bush,” she said, “It would give me more pleasure than anything else in the world.”

He stared at her in astonishment for several seconds, as though he could barely believe what he had heard, before he reached out with all the strength he could muster and pulled her to him. Anna laughed again as he held her; resting her head on his chest and feeling her heart soar for the first time in years. At last she was free, and a new life could begin.

***

It was late in the evening.

The visitors had been shooed away by the doctors, warned not to tire their patient. By this time William was sliding into sleep again, his eyelids drooping.

His hand fumbled for Anna’s hand, fingers searching the bedclothes until he found and caught it, squeezing it tenderly. “You will stay, won’t you?” he asked softly, words already slurring as slumber overtook him.

She stroked his hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He smiled sleepily. “Good.”

Anna brushed her fingers across his forehead. “Go to sleep now, love. I won’t leave you, I promise.” She continued to stroke his hand, her fingertips caressing the calluses, until he drifted off. This time he looked genuinely peaceful, the lines of pain and discomfort smoothed away, a slight smile turning up one corner of his mouth.

An answering smile lingered around Anna’s lips. A new feeling was making itself known within her, an unfamiliar feeling: a feeling of contentment.

“It’s going to be a challenging voyage for us both,” she whispered, “but we’ll face it together. We’ll be sailing into the unknown. And I can think of no one else I’d want to sail those waters with.”

He stirred slightly, his grip on her hand tightening just a little, but he did not wake.

And Anna remained by his side all night.

The ghosts of the past were finally being laid to rest.

The future lay ahead.

Uncharted territory.

The End


End file.
